Forfeit
by artistic mishap
Summary: There was something Hackett always intended to tell Shepard - and now it's too late. Post ME3 vignettes.
1. One

_A small something I wrote a few months ago. I thought I'd share it with you. _

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_**Forfeit**_

_One:_

Admiral Steven Hackett stands with his hands spread over the war room console in front of him. Around him, his crew scurries around, relaying orders, checking statistics and trying desperately to see who's still in communication. Hackett raises his hands once, and sets them down again, softly, emptying his lungs of air. He closes his eyes and lets himself feel, for the first time this whole war, like the old man that he is.

It's been nearly two hours since the Citadel did... whatever it did. The Reapers had simply died, and now floated lifelessly around the planet. One moment there'd been a battle, and the next his cruises had been firing on an unmoving enemy. His first emotion was fierce pride. He'd told Shepard that nothing was happening, and she'd done her best, and pulled through, like usual. He remembers how his face had hurt from his smile, how he was already counting off the medals to pin to her Alliance blues when this was all over. He also remembers how that smile fell off the second he saw the Citadel explode, how pride had turned numb.

The Geth ships went dark, some listing too close to atmo and burning up as they were sucked towards the planet below. There were reports from the outer rim that the mass relay had imploded. That left Hackett with a hell of a lot of alien personnel and no way to get them home. He should be planning, should be in contact with them. It's his job, yet all he feels is heavy, as though someone hooked an anchor around his ankles and dropped him into the ocean, and he dropped down, down, being slowly crushed.

Someone touches his shoulder. He snaps to attention, glancing over to see it's Yamamoto looking unusually grave. She hands him a datapad, and glancing at it he can see it's a preliminary casualty list. He goes through the list, looking at all the ship names, trying to tally how many soldiers would've been on each. He comes to Anderson's name, and he can't help another sigh. The man died as he lived – a hero.

It's that last name that gets him. The one at the very bottom of the list, like Yamamoto didn't want it there but couldn't avoid it.

_Commander Shepard._

He tosses the datapad away and runs a hand over his face. Yamamoto's still there, but standing slightly away, giving him some privacy. To her, he says, "I need to make a call. You and Orbison start drafting a contingency plans for the survivors."

"Sir?" she says.

He raises his eyebrows at her, and gives her a tired smile that takes too much effort. "The mass relay is gone, Shizuka. We have half a galaxy's worth of refugees now." He watches her eyes go wide, watches her glance out the small porthole, steel herself, and salute. He nods in answer, and retreats into the comm room.

It takes him a long time to muster up the courage to connect to the SSV Orizaba. He stands in silence, chewing on the nail of his thumb – a nasty habit he thought he'd rid himself of years ago. He waits until he knows he can't wait any longer, punching in the code he's learned by heart these past few months.

When Rear Admiral Hannah Shepard appears, she looks harried. Her officer's jacket is undone and tied around her waist, revealing an Alliance-issue tank top underneath. Her usually perfect hair has come uncoiffed, and she's shoved it back in a slapdash ponytail. There didn't used to be the long streaks of grey there, but – though he'd never admit it – Hackett thinks they suit her.

She stares at him, and offers him a belated salute. "Sir," she says, though her eyes are demanding an answer.

"No," he replies, shaking his head, leaning against the console, unable to meet her gaze. "Not now, Hannah. Not..." And somehow, he can't find the words.

She says, "Steve?" and he can hear that thread of disbelief in her voice, that note of warning, of desperation.

Because he can't think of anything else to say, he says, "She did it."

Hannah has gone very still, but her jaw is working and her eyes are too bright. "Where is she?"

He doesn't say anything, can't say anything, but he looks at her. Nothing more than that. Just looks, and feels like a damn coward for not being able to say the words a second time. His eyes are stinging, and he's trying his best to ignore it, and doing a damn good job until one tear snakes down Hannah's face. He wishes, dimly, that he could wipe it away.

"She did it," repeats Hannah, hollowly. "She always was special."

"Yeah," says Hackett. "She was."

Hannah runs a hand through her hair and wipes away the tear. She stands tall, nodding to herself, not looking at anything. "I have a job to do," she says, at last, voice full of false resolve. Hackett knows, because she always sounds more forceful when she's trying to convince herself. "And so do you."

"You're right." He stands tall, smoothing out the wrinkles in his uniform.

Hannah moves as if to cut off the transmission, but pauses. There's a hitch in her voice when she says, "Did you, finally...?"

And somehow that question, more than anything else, is what breaks him. In his long and – let's be honest – fairly distinguished career, Hackett has prided himself on keeping cool under pressure. On being utterly professional. And maybe that's why, now, at the end, he finally lets the tears roll down his face. He shakes his head silently, and cuts the communication.

He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a photograph. It's old, the edges crumpled, and has begun to dim with age. Even when it was taken, physical photos were rare, but he'd always enjoyed them. He runs one finger over the face of the child. She's maybe two or three, playing on the beach, crouched down as though ready to throw a handful of sand. The surf washes in around her stubby legs, and her face is pulled into a wide smile. He can almost hear her laughter, his little girl.

He wonders if he'll ever be able to live with the fact that he just sent her to her death.


	2. Two

_My muse has been chomping at the bit for this story. Since I am without my computer currently - and thus without my files to work on my other stories - I've taken it upon myself to get these out of my system. Please, enjoy - and don't hesitate to let me know what you think. _

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_**Forfeit**_

_Two:_

Fog swaths itself around the ruins of London. Even now, days after the final battle, there's screaming in the distance. Everything is heavy, too heavy, even those screams that lift into the sky like the calls of faraway birds. Clouds huddle oppressively overhead, with rain falling on the brittle bones of ruined buildings. Hackett picks his way through these, pausing as the concrete walls moan beneath him, before continuing, his shoes snapping on glass and brittle plastic.

He stops next to a small hand peeking out from under the rubble, skin the colour of ash with the fingers edging toward black. When he places his own hand on the ground for comparison, not giving a damn that he might cut himself on a wayward piece of shrapnel, he discovers that this hand, this small dead hand, it's nearly three times smaller than his own. This building is the burial mound for someone's child, someone's baby. Hackett's chest seizes. He wants to cradle that little hand, to press it close to his face, but his practicality wins out over sentimentality as ever – but only barely.

Maybe that's why he unfolds his Star of Terra from his pocket and sets it on a stone-like altar above that hand.

Years ago, Riley received such a medal for her work on Elysium. Damned good work, too. He'd been at the ceremony, of course, separated from Hannah by a handful of her family. Whether or not they knew about his relationship with Hannah, he didn't know and he didn't bother to ask.

Hannah's eyes were bright, but she held herself erect and proud, the shine of sunlight through the window catching the few silver hairs braided through her black hair. As the medal was pinned to Riley's chest, Hannah's brown eyes were all for her – for their – daughter. But in the moments that followed, she'd turned to look at him, a secret smile on her face as if to say, _we done good_. He'd smiled back, even knowing there was no _we_ about it.

Hackett stays squatting in front of that hand until the muscles at the base of his back grow thick with strain. Engines sound in the distance, and he knows more refugees are being carted off to the camps. He should be there, or at the makeshift Alliance HQ, directing the efforts. So many ships and squadrons are down and unaccounted for, including the Normandy, and he should be coordinating the efforts for their rescue.

It's that thought that brings him to his feet. He will find the Normandy, he'll find that crew – Riley's crew – if it's the last thing he ever does. He owes Riley that much, at least.

But still, Hackett can't head back, not yet. Jutting into the sky, where once was soaring English architecture, now sits a slab of debris from the Citadel like a gruesome exclamation point. It's impossibly close, but it still takes him near forty-five minutes picking over the downed shuttles and the refuse of civilization and he's really not as young as he used to be... He reaches it, and it appears to be a wall from one of the wards, twisted black by the force of the explosion or the quick burn through atmo. Even from meters away, he can see that survivors have claimed it for themselves. Pictures and graffitied messages in various hues circle the base, but they are all overwhelmed by the – what is it, ten foot tall? - rendition of his daughter in red and blue paint.

Hackett's hard pressed to identify the style – he's never been much for art – but it reminds him slightly of those propaganda posters circulated during the first half of the twentieth century. Riley, with red highlights and blue shadows, stares determinedly beyond the viewer, at something the audience just can't see. She looks, to Hackett's untrained eye, like some sort of messiah and, after everything, he supposes that's as apt a description as any. He wonders, what will next few days, months, years make of Commander Shepard?

Maybe he should have left his offering here, but even as the thought occurs to him, he dismisses it. This isn't a memorial, this is a shrine, a temple. It's not the woman they're honouring here, it's the idea of the woman. It's her actions personified. There is no Riley here, only Commander Shepard. For a long time, Hackett was forced to regard her as just another soldier – forced by his duty, by the agreement between him and Hannah, by the cold necessity of war – but one of those things now matter. Now, in this debris, she's just Riley.

His omni-tool flashes with a call. He hits the button and Yamamoto's face appears. From the faint dimpling in her cheeks, the thinness of her lips, he knows her to be apprehensive.

"Report," he says.

"We've got him, sir," she says quietly, before elaborating, "the President of the United North American States."

Hackett sighs, scratching an invisible itch on his jaw. "How is he?"

To anyone else, the pause would be imperceptible, but Yamamoto's been his yeoman for two years. Hackett can read as much into her silences as her words. "Not well, sir," she says at last. "We've had to restrain him."

"I'll be there shortly," he says, knowing there's nothing for it. "Keep him sedated if you can. Hackett out."

In a few short hours, he may be the single most powerful human being left standing. The Systems Alliance Parliament was obliterated in the early days when the Reapers poured through the relay without warning, followed quickly by those high ranking officials present in Vancouver when the invasion began in earnest. Then there was Udina... Hackett wishes that sonofabitch were still alive so Hackett could shoot him in the head himself. Earth's national leaders – those that survived – are proving hard to find, lured as they were by the Reapers into indoctrination, with the hope that they're constituents would simply follow their respective government's lead.

He should go deal with the President. He should go manage the search for survivors. He should go stop the inevitable political shitstorm and the collapse of treaties that would follow. He doesn't. He pulls up a contact on his tool and dials. It buzzes for a long time before there's an answer.

Hannah is covered in grime, dust mingling with sweat to make her look like a warrior woman of legend. Her brown eyes look into his face, and he notices that the lines that hug her bone structure have become more pronounced. Behind her, he can just make out a crew of people as similarly dirty, picking through the rubble.

"Hannah," he breathes, and says nothing else, because he really hasn't thought that far ahead.

"What do you want?" she demands, voice whipping through the microphone. Before the war, she would never have addressed him thus, would've been the perfect officer, but if scuttlebutt is to be believed, Rear Admiral Hannah Shepard has become harder in the past few days, working with a grim resolve that surprises even her closest and oldest of colleagues.

But not Hackett. Since that explosion, they seem to have traded places. He finds himself reflective, distracted by the play of light on the Thames, a seemingly luminescent stone until a ripple shatters the illusion – or by the sight of small flowers, sprouting between the cracks in the charred asphalt, hope for the future. He buries his guilt, his grief, under the knowledge that this is all possible because of Riley, that if not for her, Earth would've become a myth to those humans left to limp toward their (and he can admit this now, now that it's over) inevitable destruction.

It's not a perfect defence. It doesn't help him when he wakes at night, muscles seized tight and a pattern of red light looping in his mind, but it does well enough.

Hannah, though, she's gone in the absolute opposite direction. She carries none of the guilt and three times the grief, and so throws herself into her work until she's too exhausted to think of anything except sleep. Where once she was the more thoughtful of them two, the one more prone to empathy, she now works because she can't think of what else to do – because there is nothing else to do. Where Hackett's grief is blunt, a steady barrage of fists, Hannah's is sharp, and it's whittling her down.

"Have you seen this?" he asks, and angles his camera so she can see this painting of Commander Shepard.

There's a long silence on the other end before Hannah says, "You called to show me this? A picture?" Her voice is thick and too high, lips forming awkwardly around the words.

"I called to show you how our daughter inspires hope, even know," says Hackett, quietly.

"Not ours -_mine_," snaps Hannah, her rage palpable. Then, like the storm it is, it recedes, leaving her washed out. Her eyes drop, and she won't look at him as she says, "Jesus, Steve - I'm..." But she can't say the words, not quite. She shakes her head, and says, "I have to go. We're searching for survivors in the southern quadrant."

Hackett can't feel his hands. There's a faint static buzz where they used to be. He thinks of that blackened hand, someone's child, crushed to death under debris. It's not survivors Hannah's looking for, it's a survivor – one, singular. One child lost under heaps of stone and twists of metal.

He says, "Good luck," but it feels like a lie neither wants to acknowledge.

With a nod from her, the link is severed.

Hackett stares at that portrait, the one of his daughter and of not-his-daughter, and can't help but wonder what she's gazing toward. What did she see in her last few moments? What did she hope for? What future did she dream up?

It's like watching the Citadel explode again when he realizes he has no idea.


	3. Three

_Thanks so much for those who read and/or reviewed the last chapter.  
_

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_**Forfeit**_

_Three:_

Four marines stand guard, each prepped with their assault rifles. President Adam Thorsen is strapped into a re-purposed dentist's chair, leather belts notched tight around his arms and legs. Despite this, he fights, pushing his chest upwards and out, limbs straining against their bindings. Already purple bruises are forming where leather meets flesh, but the President carries on, undeterred. His grey eyes loll in his head, focusing on nothing for long, and they remind Hackett of the glass eyes in a doll he once bought for Riley when she was a baby. The flesh melted off Thorsen during the war, and what remains of his suit hangs off his body like an abandoned parachute.

"President Thorsen?" Hackett asks, clasping his hands behind his back. He is once again the cold and calculating Admiral Hackett, the strength and resolve of the Alliance made flesh. Riley's not the only one who's more idea than person nowadays.

Thorsen is either ignoring him or can't hear over the inner ramblings of his own mind. "I can't hear them anymore, I can't hear the machines – where did they go?" The man's voice is choked with hysteria, his face bunched into fine wrinkles.

"The Reapers are gone," says Hackett without preamble. "Destroyed. You'll never hear them again."

"No, no, no, no," moans Thorsen, contorting his body. "It's not true. It's a filthy lie. They're eternal. They cannot be destroyed – you don't understand!" A dangerous and feral expression lurks creeps onto Thorsen's face, his voice dropping an octave and spitting with hatred. "It was _her_, wasn't it? Commander Shepard, oh yes, she stopped the machines from singing, didn't she? Harbinger said she was dangerous, said she was a nuisance. _That little bitch._"

With a step forward, Hackett brings the back of his hand against Thorsen's face. Hackett's body thrums like an electric wire. The silence in the room changes ever so slightly. This man, for all he was, is now a victim – but he's also the last living avatar of a vanquished enemy, insane though he might be. After a moment, the President starts on again, albeit more quietly, with his ramblings.

Hackett allows himself a moment to wonder if this is what Amanda was reduced to, all those many months ago. If Riley had stood where he stands now, with the same decision to be made. Hell, it shouldn't even be a question – he read her report. He could probably recite the thing backwards.

He sighs heavily as Thorsen gibbers on. Riley has given them a chance for a new world, a new future. A line of drool dribbles out of the corner of Thorsen's mouth. It's clear that this man, the President, Adam Thorsen, whoever he is now, he's no longer fit to rule anyone. Whatever he might've been, it's lost now. So Hackett turns to the Sergeant near the door.

"Take him somewhere discreet and put him out of his misery," orders Hackett, tucking one hand – the one he used to strike Thorsen – into his pocket. The Sergeant hesitates, his fingers gripping at his rifle, eyes focused on the former President of the United North American States and a sheen appearing on his brow.

"Sir," says the Sergeant, "hasn't there been enough killing?"

_Yes, there has _is what Hackett wants to say, but that's not a luxury he can afford. He levels his features into a stern frown, and thinks back on all the battles he's fought, all the battles he's led. "Kid, let me tell you something," he says. "There will always be killing. You think it's wrong to kill this man? That he's a victim? I'm not going to deny that. This," here Hackett gestures at the convulsing mess in the chair, "is not his fault. But it is what it is. There's no place for a man like him in the world."

Still, the Sergeant hesitates. "But," he starts, "sir-"

So Hackett pulls out his ace in the hole. "Commander Shepard gave her life so that we could be free of the Reapers' influence." He points one gnarled finger at Thorsen. "Does he look free to you?" That does it. Resolve settles under the skin of the marine, and he gives a short head shake. Hackett says, "Then get it done."

He doesn't wait around to see them put his orders into action. A gnawing, pulsing sensation has sunk to the bottom of his gut. Once out of the room, he tells Yamamoto that he's headed home, but to assemble all galactic leaders here in the morning, because there's work to be done. Otherwise, hold his calls. She nods, her eyes flitting back and forth as she processes his requests.

His apartment is across the compound. Old warehouses huddle close to each other, and the voices of marines whisper around the walls and through the boarded windows like ghosts. The sky has grown dark, and the large flood lamps cast angular shadows across the ground. Nearly everyone salutes as he trudges through the courtyard to the old office building that now serves as quarters for all Alliance personnel in London. The metal stairs groan under his weight as he stamps his way up to the top floor. He says not a word to anyone that passes him, not until he's safe within the walls of his own place. Most others have to share, but not him. It wasn't his choice either, but as one of the few high ranking members of the Alliance left, he can't afford to be reckless.

He thinks of his lone excursions into the city. Can't afford to be _too_ reckless, he amends.

He leans back against the shut door, closing his eyes and taking shallow breaths. He should've killed Thorsen himself. He shouldn't have used Commander Shepard to win his battles for him. The thought's out, and he can't even decide which time he means, he did it so often.

There's a sliver of movement in the dark, the barest rustle of cloth on flesh and boots against carpet. Hackett has his gun drawn before the assailant has any time to come forward, but this person holds up her hands and comes forward. It's Hannah.

"I could've shot you," says Hackett, lowering his gun.

Hannah has no answer to that. Her lower lip trembles, as do all the muscles in her body. If possible, more grime has attached to her face since the last time he saw her, yesterday. Her hands are bloody. Hackett takes them in his own and pulls her to his small kitchenette. Water isn't working – too much damage to the infrastructure by the Reapers, possibly on purpose in an attempt to drive people to stupidity – but he has a tub of purified on the counter. He pours some in a bowl and uses a mostly clean cloth to wipe at her hands.

"What happened?" he asks.

"I'm not going to find her, am I?" asks Hannah. Her voice is a deep well. You could throw stones into that voice, and you might never hear them touch the bottom.

He wants to lie. More than anything, he wants to lie. But his mouth is glued shut, because he's never been the sort to feed others false hope. Not in war, not even in love. Hannah knows him well enough to know that, well enough to interpret his silence. She slides down the cupboards. She doesn't weep or fall into hysterics, only looks at her bloody hands. He sinks down next to her, delicately working the stones and grit from her wounds with his cloth. Nothing is said, but a dialogue passes between them anyways. It's not dramatic, but subdued, broken.

Hannah leans her head against his shoulder. It's been years – decades even – since her head was last there, and it feels familiar. If Hackett were the poetic type, he might even say it feels like home.

"I really want to hate you," she whispers, "for putting her in charge. For having her on the ground in the end. For letting her make it to the Citadel."

Hackett pauses in his ministrations, his head already filled with rationales, with statistics and probabilities, and maybe more importantly, with gut instinct – but in that deluge, excuses come too, and apologies, and feelings too indistinct and unfamiliar that he can't even begin to name them. In the end, Hannah captures it best:

"But then I realized that if you'd held her back, she would've fought against you even harder. That she would've found her way down there on her own, regardless of anything we threw at her. She was the best soldier, and the worst. And damned stubborn." Hannah's lips twist in a way that tries desperately to be a smile. "She got that from you, definitely."

What can he say to that? That Riley Shepard was one of the best soldier's he'd ever worked with, even given her propensity for taking matters into her own hands? That she had courage and leadership lacking in those even twice her age? That despite this, he'd been furious to find out David had set her in charge of the entire war effort, because hadn't she done enough? That after the moment had passed, when his reason had once again taken hold, he'd realized that it had to be her – that nobody else could get the job done? That she was the galaxy's last hope? That even at the end, her words blurred by pain, her thoughts had only been for victory? What can he say?

"I'm sorry," he says, though it's not enough, even by a long shot, and even though it's true, he'd make the same choice again. Even knowing what he does now, even knowing the grief that waited for him, He would. Riley made a choice, maybe the only choice she ever could, because circumstances had shaped her into a very particular sort of person, the exact person who could survive, who could make it to the crucible and use it to destroy the Reapers. Yeah, he'd do it again, but that doesn't mean he's not sorry.

Hannah tilts her hips and moves so they're face to face. Her hand reaches to cup his face, callused fingers tracing patterns in his stubble. Thin lips press against his, chapped and tasting of salt and dirt. His arms circle her, and they make it to his small cot, removing each article of clothing slowly, moving against each other slowly, struggling to remember the way their bodies used to fit together.

They both know, as they finish, that this isn't about love. Not right now, while the pain is so fresh. But as he watches the light from the window trace the curve of Hannah's cheekbone, Hackett entertains the notion that they figured it out, what seems like forever ago, and maybe when this is over, maybe when they come out the other side of hell, they'll be able to do so again.


	4. Four

_**Forfeit**_

_Four:_

The talks are set to begin after lunch. Before they do, Hackett gathers a group of men to scour the city. With President Thorsen dead, he's the only one left with even the illusion of authority, and with the negotiations coming up, he can't afford to be made a target. He dresses in the fatigues of normal ground troops rather than anything distinguishing, and carries a sub-machine gun at his side as he leaves the compound.

Hannah's taking a rest from her search. He's decided he'll pick up the slack, get his hands dirty before dealing with politicians.

It's an odd day. The sun is trying desperately to push through the clouds, but to little visible result. The charred and broken buildings cast strange shadows over the littered streets, but at least it's not raining. Hackett leads his men to the east, and they sift through buildings, calling for survivors and foraging anything salvageable. They've moved into a residential area, and they call out to the wounded or the dying.

Hackett knows the score. It's been days since the war officially ended. The most they're probably find are a few corpses. If they're lucky, they might find some salvageable electronics or rations. If they're blessed, they might even find a survivor or two.

They round the corner and there it is. A dead Reaper lies like a beached giant squid, only – and correct him if he's wrong – Hackett's sure nothing in the ocean ever looked so malevolent, even in death. Around him, his marines tense, and Hackett gives the silent order to skirt around the thing, not willing to risk any potential effects even now. What was it that Riley once whispered to him during her incarceration? They'd been discussing destroyed Reapers, and she'd said something along the lines of _even dead gods dream_.

He pushes his men into a building and they fan out. Hackett heads down towards the basement. The cement steps have crumbled, leaving a perilous and unstable mound. He grabs an exposed girder to help himself down, knowing even as he does so that this is probably a mistake. But something urges him forward – and after a few moments, he realizes it's the smell of piss and death, both recent. He allows himself a moment to reflect on the shape of his life, that he would recognize these attributes.

He picks his way down, slowly, one step at a time. The mound rumbles beneath him, small stones skittering off and echoing. By the time he reaches the bottom, a fine sheen of sweat has licked across his face. His nose leads him to a room with a partially open door. A soft push tells him it's been barricaded shut from the other side, so he gives it a harder one. The door slides open with the scrape of wood against concrete. A gunshot rings out, blasting the door frame next to him.

Falling footsteps thunder overhead, and then one of the marines calls, "Admiral Hackett? Are you all right?"

"Fine," he calls back. "Stay where you are."

"Yes sir," says the marine – Boyle, thinks Hackett – but there's more than a little apprehension there.

With his hands raised up, Hackett slowly shifts into the room, aware that he might at any moment be shot and hoping that whoever it is, they aim for the much larger (and protected) target that is his chest, and not his naked face.

The girl is impossibly small, and skeletal. Eleven, maybe? Twelve? Hard to say. Her skin speaks to warmer climes, probably the shade of chocolate milk on a good day – but today's not a good day, and she looks more grey than anything. Her hair has been hacked short, grimy, oil-slicked strands clinging to her forehead. But what gets Hackett the most are her eyes. They're blue, maybe the bluest he's ever seen except for – and here he pushes that thought away, because it serves no purpose to think of Riley now – except they're deadened.

One small hand grips the pistol, pointed directly at him. It trembles only slightly. Hackett's eyes slide over to the space next to the girl, and he can't stop the quiet sound that emerges from his throat as he realizes that shape swarming with flies was once a person.

The girl doesn't say a word.

Hands still raised, Hackett lowers himself into a squat to bring them to the same level. He's decided to treat her like a spooked animal, because he doesn't know how long she's been down here and that comparison may be more apt than he knows.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says, keeping his voice down. "My name is Steven. I'm with the Alliance. I've come to help."

The girl still says nothing. Cautiously, Hackett drops one hand to his belt. He sees her trigger finger twitch, but then he pulls out a protein bar – pretty much the staple of the Alliance diet at the moment – and holds it out. The girl's face grows hungry, she scrambles to her feet with her sights still trained on him, and scrambles over to him, snatching the bar away from him as though he might decide to steal it back. Then she retreats.

He's already considered the dilemma she now faces, but he watches it bloom on her face. How to open the package – a feat that requires two hands – while holding the gun? Her eyes turn on him, but he doesn't move. Slowly, so slowly, she places the gun down beside her and rips the wrapper open, shoveling the bar into her mouth. She takes great, gnawing bites but from the way her throat bobs, it's clear she's swallowing the bar mostly whole.

Hackett tries another tactic: "I'm with Alliance. We've got camps set up, with food and shelter and medicine."

She stops chewing, eyes fixed on him. "Mina says we're not supposed to go to the camps." Her voice is hoarse from disuse. "The monsters go to those places and round everyone up. Put them on spikes – make them monsters too." By the end, she's breathing quick, frantic breaths through her nose.

What this girl went through, what so many people went through… Hackett doesn't want to think about it. What he called it was a strategic retreat. In the grand scheme of things, it was the right call, but seeing the civilians who suffered for his choices… It chills him to think of it. He read the reports, watched those few vids that made it onto the extranet. Research, he'd called it then, but really, he'd watched to stay in touch, to stay angry. He was far from the front lines for the majority of the war, and he needed to see, needed to remember what was at stake if they failed.

It was hell, pure and simple. Even in the few days, the extranet had been awash with comparisons drawn between the book of Revelation and the Reaper invasion. Hackett isn't a religious man, but when he remembers what he saw in those illicit vids, when he looks at this girl, sometimes he wonders if that isn't closer to the truth than they all realize.

Of course, they've won in the end. No wonder Riley's being treated like a messiah.

"Hey," he says to the girl. "I know that's what happened before, but these are Alliance funded. Things are different now. The Reapers – the monsters – they're gone. Dead." She looks doubtful, her hand snaking towards the pistol once more. Hackett breathes deep. "You know Commander Shepard, right?" She pauses, and allows herself a short nod. Hackett almost smiles. "She stopped them all. They're gone, I promise. Do you want to come outside and see?"

The girl glances at the corpse, her lower lip trembling for the first time. She nods, bigger and faster this time. She holds up the gun and says, "You first."

Hackett can't help his surge of pride at her initiative, for being smart and brave enough to pull such a ballsy move. He nods, and moves backwards, out of the room. He starts to climb up the mound, glancing back to see if she's following. She is, and she seems to be doing better than he is, truth be told.

Boyle and several other marines are waiting at the top. Their eyes widen as they take in the fact that Hackett's being held at gunpoint by a starved adolescent. He motions them to stand down, and allows himself to lead – or be led? – outside. The girl blinks wildly in the brightness of the day, despite the overcast weather. Hackett stays still, allowing her a moment.

That's when she sees the dead Reaper.

She drops the gun, taking a few ambling steps forward, body swaying like a leaf in the wind. "It's dead?" she says, and the lilt at the end makes it a question. At his nod, she starts to cry with huge gasping breaths.

Hackett's never been particularly paternal, but just then he crouches by that little girl and takes her into his arms. She clings to him like to let go is to die. Her tears are so plentiful that they soak through his fatigues. He runs one hand over the small of her back, aware of the marines several yards away watching the scene unfold, and he whispers comforts in her ear, meaningless phrases meant to soothe until she falls asleep.

He picks her up, holds her in his arms, and realizes that throughout the course of her tears, he called her _Riley_ without thought.


	5. Five

_**Forfeit**_

_Five:_

There's a call waiting for him when he returns to the compound a few days later. Hackett can only sigh and assume that it's one of the other leaders.

To say they're having a rocky time coming to certain agreements is an understatement. The krogan aren't used to playing nice with others, and no matter how well they fought with the turians and the salarians when there was a common enemy, they're now growing restless on a rock with, and this was a direct quote, _nothing worth doing_. One of the quarians' liveships was badly damaged in the final push on Earth, and with the majority of their population floating in orbit, they're now reluctant to share food with the turians.

How Riley ever got these people to see eye to eye, he'll never know. She certainly didn't get it from him. Most days, all he wants to do is walk out on the squabbling. They've all lost people, he knows, but it wears on him, to see those carefully crafted alliances crumble now that the threat of annihilation is passed. Riley would be sad to see it, he's sure.

Actually, no. Riley would yell her head off, punch a few people, and insert a few sly threats to get her way. She would speak to need, and she'd tell them to stop thinking of their own petty desires and think of the bigger picture. But she's not here, and Hackett must go it alone. He lacks her flair, certainly, but can say without pride that he's become one of the few stabilizing forces during the discussions. He and the Primarch have become, well, not friends but unspoken allies. They both understand that these next few weeks are critical. If they all fall apart now, that's it. They're done.

But when he enters his office, Yamamoto's staring at him with wide eyes. She stands, her hands clasped together, and he frowns at her. "It's the Normandy," she whispers. "They've got a signal through."

Hackett near runs into his briefing room, hitting the interface. A holo of a turian stands in front of him. The turian salutes, even though he owes Hackett nothing. This is Garrus Vakarian. Hackett's never met the man, but Riley always spoke highly of him. Her second, she called him. He'd follow her into hell, she said, complaining about the weather, of course, but still, he'd be right there. If he was good enough for her, he's good enough for Hackett.

"Admiral," Vakarian says, shifting his weight. "I hope you don't mind a non-Alliance crewmember."

"Not at all," says Hackett, and looks at the man in front of him carefully. Vakarian favours one leg, and it's clear he was banged up pretty good in the battle a few weeks ago. Several new scars line his face, though none as impressive as the mottled flesh on the left side of his face. "Status report?"

"Comm systems have been offline," says Vakarian, folding his arms. "We passed through the relay during some kind of explosion. Sent us way off course. We're about three systems over on an uninhabited planet. The asari had mining colonies here, once, but they're long since abandoned. There was some damage to the hull, and the mass effect core, but nothing substantial." He pauses, taking measure of Hackett in front of him. "Repairs are slow going without EDI."

Hackett scours his brain. "The AI aboard the ship."

Vakarian nods. "She won't respond."

With a sigh, Hackett shoves his hands into his pockets. "Hate to tell you this, but she's not like to either. The Reapers are dead, but so are the geth. Whatever the Crucible did, it didn't differentiate between synthetics. It just wiped them all out."

Dropping his arms, Vakarian slumps forward, hands on the console in front of him. The effect is strange, since the console itself is not projected in the transmission, leaving Hackett with the impression that Vakarian is leaning on something that doesn't exist. "Then – then it's done. The Reapers are destroyed." The turian lets out a great breath, his body slumping. "Thank god." A moment passes, and without looking up, he asks, "And – and Shepard?"

There's something too familiar about the tone in Vakarian's voice. He's not asking as a crewmember, or even as a friend. Hackett wishes he didn't hear it, that desperate hope in Vakarian's voice, wishes he didn't have to be the one to squash it. He and Riley never had a familial relationship, but still, he'd never guessed _this – _but reflecting on all that Riley had said, on the fact that Vakarian was with her every step of the way, can he do anything but approve, now?

Once again, his voice leaves him. If this were just another nameless soldier, that would be one thing. But from the sound of it, it's not Commander Shepard that Vakarian's asking after, it's Riley.

Hackett can only say, "No."

Vakarian's body goes rigid, his face still hidden from sight. Those two-fingered hands tighten on the console, and there's the faintest crunching sound. Hackett's wondering if turians cry when the other man lets out a deep keening sound, just one, filled with anger and remorse and grief, before hoisting himself back up into an upright position. He nods, once, eyes distant. He says, "I should have told her before the end. I shouldn't have left it."

"What?" says Hackett before he can help himself.

Those alien blue eyes zero in on him, and even though they're not the same species – far from it – Hackett is able to read a defiance into Vakarian's posture, a dare almost. "That I loved her." His words are dripping in self-loathing.

And there's something ironic here, Hackett's sure. If there is some divine presence in the universe, there's some hidden message hidden in the complex layerings of emotion and experience. "At least you told her."

"No offense, but that's not a big comfort right now," says Vakarian.

"No, I suppose not," concedes Hackett, clasping his hands in front of him. "But if you'd never said it at all? Now you wouldn't get the chance." He intends to leave it there, but his body seems to work of its own volition when he adds, "I didn't tell her." Vakarian reels backwards, and Hackett realizes how this must sound to Riley's – what? Lover? He shakes his head with a sharp snort. "Not that I loved her, no, though I did."

Through his grief, Vakarian manages to look wary. "Then what?"

"I'm her father," says Hackett, and all at once, all of the breath bursts from him. It's as though his chest is going to collapse in on itself, not just with grief, but with relief too. This is the first time he's ever said those words out loud, and they ring in the silence, hanging there. His head spins. "So," he continues lamely, "at least you told her. I didn't even do that."

Through his shock, Vakarian allows himself a dark chuckle. "She'd have been pissed." His tone is wistful. "She hated people keeping things from her, and she always knew just the best ways to dig them out."

Hackett allows himself to smile too. He can imagine the outrage painted onto Riley's face. God knows he saw it enough during the war. He wouldn't deserve any less, and neither would Hannah, though their reasons for keeping it quiet were sound. "Of that, I have no doubt," agrees Hackett. He clears his throat. "How long until you can return to Earth?"

Vakarian gives a shallow shrug. "We should have enough fuel to get us there, once the repairs are made. Travelling without relays, though… Months."

"We have asari engineers scattered to the nearest relays. It appears that they hadn't be destroyed like preliminary reports suggested, but they will take time to get operational. Hopefully, by the time you're ready to go, several will be repaired and that'll turn weeks of travel into hours." The news isn't exactly hopeful, and Hackett knows it, but it's the best he's got. "Are there any messages you want me to pass along?"

Vakarian shakes his head. "Not really, except that we're alive."

"I wouldn't keep that to myself in any case. It's going to be a big boost to morale," says Hackett, clasping his hands in front of him. Riley may be gone, but her crew – the crew that made her victory possible, that supported her along the way – they're alive. People the world over are going to be uplifted by this news. And hopefully, someday, the men and women of the Normandy will help the crowds to see the woman, and not just the legacy she left behind.

"Admiral," says Vakarian, and once again the turian has sunk into a profoundly uncomfortable tone, his limbs weighted down. "Have you found her body?"

Hackett feels his mouth go thin. "Not yet."


	6. Six

_**Forfeit**_

_Six:_

He's in a meeting with the delegates from the other races when the call comes. Since hearing back from the Normandy, things have proceeded much as he anticipated. Where once they were bickering amongst themselves, putting their own interests first, now they've rallied behind Commander Shepard's legacy. Hackett wouldn't call it shame, not exactly, but there's no denying that now, now there's a desperate need to live up to her example. Now there are people alive who know exactly what it cost.

The turians and quarians have cemented a pact. They've agreed to work together, the turians offering tactical support in exchange for foodstuffs. It's a huge weight off not only Victus' shoulders, but Hackett's own. He didn't want to watch the turians starve to death on a planet so far from home.

For the rest of them, teams have been dispatched to North American corn belt. Huge acres of land were destroyed by the Reapers, probably in an attempt to starve out those they couldn't capture outright, but from the reports, enough still survives to be inordinately helpful. The salarians have already been working on ways of harvesting and producing the food rapidly, and have combined with asari and human scientists to get it done.

The conversation is winding down when Victus stands, clearing his throat. "Several of my men have been asking," he begins, sounding more somber than usual, "if they might do something to commemorate Commander Shepard somehow."

This shouldn't surprise Hackett. He's been waiting for this for weeks. Some of the Alliance marines have tentatively broached the subject as well, but he could only shake his head and say _not yet_. It's a fool's hope he clings to, a bitter resolve, but not one he seems able (or willing) to shake. It's served him well in the past, gotten him out of tight spots. Why not now?

The room is quiet, thoughtful. Finally, Urdnot Wrex nods. "Shepard is a hero to my people, and she is – _was_ – a good friend to me." Wrex frowns deeply, swinging his eyes around the room, as if waiting for someone to make a comment. Nobody does. "The krogan owe her."

Soft murmurs of ascent fill the room. The asari matriarch Valaina starts mentioning a posthumous medal of courage for Commander Shepard – something to do with Athame, but Hackett misses the actual designation. Victus mentions the Nova Cluster, and Major Kirrahe mentions the Silver Dagger, and they all go off on the medals and commendations and epitaphs they'll write for her.

Hackett says nothing, sinking deeper into himself, and he wants to tell them that it's all meaningless because she's dead, and because she's saved them all and what's a higher honour than that? But he doesn't, because this is the way it's supposed to go. This is how heroes are supposed to be remembered.

The only one who looks like he might even come close to understanding is Wrex, who's leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, watching the discussion unfold with much the same detachment as Hackett.

They're just turning to look at him, to garner his support, to start making the plans for a ceremony to trump all other ceremonies when Yamamoto nearly falls into the room. She rights herself, hands clenched tight and her eyes open wide. Tear tracks trail her cheeks, and she looks at everyone except Hackett like she can't remember why they're here.

She's never been anything but professional, not in all the years they've worked together. And while there were times during the war when she wasn't quite able to stamp down her feelings as well as himself – there were few who could – he's never seen her quite this shaken, not even when the Reapers attacked. Then, she'd shown grim resolve. This… this is something different.

Concerned, he stands, laying one hand flat on the table. "What is it, Shizuka?"

"Sir," she starts, but stops to swallow the lump in her throat with visible effort. "They found her. They found Shepard."

The whole room goes silent and still, as though they've all been frozen in time. Hackett can feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, but he finds that his legs have buckled. He tries to play this off as he slumps down into his chair, hands holding him up long enough to give the illusion of gravitas. Hackett wants to weep, but he buries the impulse deep in the rubble that used to be his heart. He clenches his hand on the table into a fist.

"I'll make the preparations," he says quietly, already trying to figure out how the hell he's going to tell Hannah. He can't quite look anyone in the eye. "Full Alliance funeral, as soon as we're able."

"The turian hierarchy would like to contribute as well," says Victus. "I didn't know the Commander well, but I respected her. In the end, she rose even higher than my expectations."

"She gave us back our homeworld," says Admiral Shala'Raan, wringing her hands. "She brought us peace when we thought such notions were all but lost."

Wrex's eyes are closed. It's clear he has much to stay, but settles on, "She was a sister to me." And somehow, coming from him, that's the highest praise Hackett thinks he has to offer.

Hackett, better than anyone, knows exactly how much Riley accomplished. He read through all her reports from day one. He saw her grow from a rookie just out of basic to a commemorated war hero. She united the whole galaxy, everyone knew that, but seeing these people, seeing all them brought together in a singular purpose for what might be one final time, clustered around the memory of his daughter, he can't help the torrential wash of some unknowable emotion, half pride and half grief.

All he can do is nod at the room in concession.

"No sir," breaks in Yamamoto, and now she's weeping openly, making not even the slightest effort to hide it. A tremulous smile breaks onto her face. "Admiral, she's alive. They found her alive."

Everything is suspended, that moment of zero-gravity before impact. Hackett stares at her in incomprehension. What she just said isn't possible. There have been searches for weeks. No one on the Citadel was found alive – not the councillors, not David, not Shepard. There's no way…

It's not proper military or diplomatic procedure, but he doesn't care. He's out of his chair and in front of Yamamoto before he can say how he got there, his hands gripping her shoulders fiercely, probably enough to leave one hell of a bruise in the morning. "Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?"

Yamamoto hiccoughs and nods.

"Then what the hell are we waiting for?" yells Wrex from across the room, pushing past all the other delegates.

_My daughter, _thinks Hackett. He takes a deep breath. "Has Rear Admiral Hannah Shepard been informed?"

"It was one of her crews that found the Commander, sir."

For what feels like the first time since this damned war started, Hackett smiles.


	7. Seven

_****I want to thank you all for the explosive reaction to the last chapter. I don't think I've ever gotten so much wonderful feedback in one go before. This started as a tiny side project, but knowing so many people are enjoying it makes me want to work harder at it. :)_

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_**Forfeit**_

_Seven:_

Is it silly to admit that when he pictured _alive_, Hackett pictured Riley Shepard up and about, issuing orders and smiling that half-smirk of hers? That's how it was following Saren, and to the best of his knowledge, that's how it was following the attack on the Collector base. Of course he knows she's not invincible; the last few weeks have proven that.

But whatever he expected, this wasn't it.

Her face is black and blue and swollen to twice its normal size, features completely unrecognizable. Where once her hair fell to below her shoulders, it's now been completely shaved off to accommodate for the stitches that railroad her skull. Both arms are held together by pins, and from what Hackett was told, there are two fractures in the right while the left has been nearly crushed. One leg is blown open with a festering wound that stinks of death when he gets too close. Anyone might think she's dead, but for the steady, shallow pumping of her chest.

And even given this, even given the fact that she hasn't yet woken or moved, and that even if she had, she'd be unable to move… She's the most beautiful thing in the world.

He used his considerable pull to get her a private room in the hospital, for what little that means. Four Alliance bodyguards are stationed outside her door at all times, and though they have no chairs and very few breaks, every time Hackett asks if they'd like to be relieved, they shake their heads with resolve.

Originally, Wrex supplied krogan to act as bodyguards, but it became clear quite early on that they were a little _too_ zealous in their job. Hackett was forced to tactfully reassign them.

What he wants is to sit with Hannah, to sit with Riley, to keep them company, but he can't. There's still too much rebuilding to do, and they are now at the end of summer, and making headway into autumn. Shelters need to be built, infrastructure repaired, amenities supplied if people want even a slim chance of making it through the winter alive. So he goes to the meetings, he arranges what needs doing, and at the end of the day, instead of going to his tiny apartment, he goes to the hospital.

A perimeter has been secured around the old Victorian building that now serves as the hospital, the guard consisting not only of Alliance soldiers, but of all the races, each face grim with resolve. They line the gate. After the first day, it was clear that it was going to be necessary. When word of Commander Shepard's survival broke out, refugees started swarming the place in droves. They now stand a fair distance off, holding homemade candles and elegies to Shepard, huddled together and speaking in low tones.

When they see Hackett, they crowd in, offering him flowers and cards and other such gifts to take to Commander Shepard. He holds up his hands, thanking them, before pushing through to the guards. They hold off the well-wishers.

The hospital is makeshift at best. Gurneys and cots line the hallways, which stink of bowel movements, vomit and decay. Hackett makes himself look at every person he passes, makes himself acknowledge just how lucky he is. When he passes a corpse, he thanks the God he isn't sure exists that Riley is alive and, well, mostly whole.

Hannah's fallen asleep in a metal foldout chair next to Riley, her head resting on the edge of the thin mattress, and even in sleep, she's a careful distance away from her daughter's battered body so as not to cause any pain. Hackett stops in the doorway, leaning against the frame and watching the two of them breathe in, breathe out. Riley's heart monitor beeps into the empty silence, and Hackett scans the brainwave monitor, knowing it shows nothing good.

A doctor is making a few notes on a clipboard. He's young, probably around Riley's age, and his hair sticks up in all directions like he's been running his hands through it all day. He moves to leave and notices Hackett for the first time, coming to a full stop before pushing himself onwards.

"How is she?" asks Hackett.

The doctor shrugs, which doesn't seem very professional to Hackett. "We have to wait and see. Honestly, I have no idea how she's still alive. Not only is there evidence that she was injured prior to the Citadel explosion, but after that… Well, she fell through atmo in metal structure that crumpled like a ball of paper, Admiral."

"She always was stubborn," says Hackett, allowing himself the ghost of a smile. The doctor shrugs and starts to move away, but Hackett grabs him by the arm. "Is there anything we can do? There's a whole crowd of people out there waiting for Commander Shepard. If she dies, do you know what that's going to do for morale?"

Even after all this time, he still couches his own fears in the familiarity of strategy. It's much easier than admitting that if she dies for a third time, he isn't sure what's going to be left of himself to salvage.

The doctor runs a hand through his hair, proving Hackett's earlier theory. "I'm doing everything I can, Admiral. There isn't anything else that can be done."

"I noticed you haven't been giving her much medigel," says Hackett.

Now the doctor grows impatient, eyes narrowing. "That's because there _isn't _much, sir. Most of it was looted or used by the Alliance in the war. When we won, there were a great many soldiers who needed medical attention. Following that, there were survivors pulled from the wreckage who needed it. Our stock is severely depleted."

"What about some other form of treatment?"

"What other form of treatment?" The doctor's voice has degenerated into little more than a hiss. "I don't know if you've noticed, but we're severely limited on staff and equipment. I had to perform an amputation today. You know what I used? A hacksaw, some vodka and a leather belt. A hacksaw, for Christ's sake."

This isn't what Hackett wants to hear, but he's gotten used to bad news during this war. He lets out a deep breath, and with a slight nod, stuffs his hands into his pockets. And though he doesn't want the answer, precisely because he's sure it's something he doesn't want to hear, he asks, "What are her chances?"

The doctor is uncomfortable, his hands clenching his datapad. His eyes skim towards the prostrate form of the galaxy's hero. "I honestly don't know. She shouldn't even be alive. I mean, the amount of trauma that her brain must've gone through…" He breaks off, seeing something on Hackett's face, and clears his throat. "She's stable for now, but if you're asking, _is she going to wake up_, then I have to be honest and say it's not likely."

Hackett's mouth quirks up. "If anyone can work with _not likely_ and turn it into a _most definitely_, it's her." He turns his body in such a way that it's clear the conversation is over. "Thank you, Doctor."

The doctor does this sort of half-bow, half-nod gesture and skitters off. Hackett stands in silence a long time, watching Hannah and Riley breathe in and out. Gradually, he becomes aware of someone watching him, and turns to see a woman down the hall, leaning against a beam with her arms crossed. Her blue eyes are only for him. She pushes off and starts to walk confidently towards him.

The guards tense, but Hackett waves them off. This woman, she's not a reporter. She stops next to him, peering inside the room, her face going grave. Her hands open and shut at her sides.

"Miranda Lawson," says Hackett, pulling his gaze from her. "I didn't expect you to come."

"Shepard's my friend," she says, more than a little defensively. "We might not have started out that way, but we got there eventually."

There's nothing to say to that, so instead Hackett says, "What can I do for you?"

"Actually, I'm more concerned with what _I_ can do for _you_," she says. She pulls an OSD out of a pocket, holding it between two fingers like it's an old fashioned coin.

"What's that?" he asks.

"The lab reports from Project Lazarus," she says, palming the OSD. At his less than enthused response, she sends him a tight look and adds, "Detailed schematics on how we brought your daughter back from the dead."

They stand together for a few beats. "Can you use it to help her now?"

Lines appear between Lawson's brows, and her mouth fuses tight with resolve. "I can damn well try."


	8. Eight

_****I just want to thank you all for the tremendous response to this story. I'm glad that people are enjoying it. I feel like this chapter is still really rough, but in the interest of posting for you guys, I'm posting it anyways. Thanks you again!  
_

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_**Forfeit**_

_Eight:_

It's been three months. Hackett never expects miracles. They're too tied up with religion for him, and besides which, they're entirely too close to helplessness. He prefers action and strategy. He prefers decisions – even when they're the difficult ones, because at least if some good comes of them, they're due to his direct intervention and not because of some supposed otherworldly power. Miracles are what's left when there's nothing else to be done.

So it worries him, now, that he's started hoping for a miracle, because that really means it's the beginning of the end.

Hannah's curled herself into the shabby armchair he procured for her once it became evident that although she would continue to do her duty in whatever capacity she was needed, she was still going to return to Riley at every opportunity. Her legs are draped over an arm that was burnt black before Hackett ever laid eyes on it. It's not going to win any beauty contests, especially because it's this atrocious rust colour, but it's still better than the fold out metal chair she was in before.

Riley's heart monitor beeps in a smooth, steady rhythm. Hackett likes to pretend that it's Morse code, the kind that old ships used to use, and that she's trying to tell him something. It's foolish, and whenever he thinks it, he tries his best to push it away.

Miranda Lawson has been working tirelessly on a way to wake Riley up. She said something about a surgery, but lately she's been talking about some sort of serum – something to do with Riley's implants? Normally, Hackett would be interested in seeing the schematics, in understanding the theories behind the practical application. That's how he ran the Crucible project, and that's how he's been since his days in the Advanced Training Academy for Juveniles.

Somehow, though, he doesn't want to know. It's strange – he should be concerned as hell. Lawson has prior Cerberus connections, which in turn implies that her past is anything but spotless. But all questions lead back to Project Lazarus, and even for Hackett, agnostic as he is, that research seems too much like sacrilege to be comfortable. That, and he really doesn't want to imagine Riley going through it. He was glad when she turned up alive for the first time, but he doesn't want to imagine her corpse shoved full of test tubes.

He trusts Lawson though. It's a strange thing, but when the woman looks at Riley, Hackett can see that she's not just looking at her research or her investment. She's looking at her friend. And she's been nothing but diligent since arriving. She's been putting in sixteen hour days, huddled around those few microscopes they've managed to find. She shows up every so often with an update, her veneer of perfection slipping a little more each time. Too many variables, she says, not enough raw resources.

In a bombed out, post-apocalyptic Earth, yeah, Hackett believes it.

"Are you just going to stand there all night?" asks Hannah, glancing up from her datapad. She frowns upon seeing his face, swinging her long legs to the ground and moving towards him. "Hey, what's up?"

Which brings him to why he came. Mostly, he just needed to look at Riley, to reassure himself that even if she wasn't _all right_, she was at least _alive_. Because others weren't as lucky.

"They found David," he says, and he doesn't think he's ever spoken anything that had such a definitive period at the end.

Hannah pauses, like she's been caught in a trap, but her hand comes to his arm, gripping tightly. "Dead?"

Hackett nods, and leaves it at that. He doesn't want to tell her that David's body was nearly unrecognizable. That he hadn't been nearly so lucky as Riley – that all his distinguishing features had been burnt away. That only his dog tags and dental records confirmed him to be the late Admiral.

She sighs, and her eyes drift towards Riley. He knows what she's thinking. If Riley ever wakes up – no, _when_ Riley wakes up – how are they going to tell her that her mentor didn't make it?

"She asked me once," says Hannah, almost hesitantly, "if David was her father. Said that he always had her back, always treated her like family instead of just a subordinate." She shuffles slightly.

The flash that goes through his gut isn't jealousy, not exactly. He shouldn't feel it – he shouldn't be envious over a dead man, especially when that dead man was as close a friend as Hackett had. He runs a hand over his head and forces himself to be collected. It isn't as though it wasn't a sound suspicion on Riley's part, but he couldn't help but wonder if she'd ever looked to him and wondered. Probably not. He'd given her absolutely no reason to – that was the point.

"You ever think we made a mistake?" he said, at last.

"Every damn day, recently," she says, and takes his hand. "We were young and we thought we knew everything, but… if I could go back, I would make us find another way."

Hackett makes a sound that could be interpreted as agreement, but that isn't, not really. He admitted to himself that he if he had to put Riley through all the bullshit she'd gone through to get to this point, he would do it. It's still true. If she needed an absent father to turn into this woman, this woman who united a galaxy and destroyed the worst threat in human history, he doesn't know that he would go back and make a different choice.

"We might have had to give up Alliance careers, both of us," says Hackett instead. "We might have been court martialed."

"Might've been worth it," replies Hannah lightly, squeezing his hand.

And who knows? Maybe it would've been. But Alliance regulations are not kind when a superior officer fraternizes with a subordinate – especially when the fraternization happens on the ship itself. God, how many times had they almost been caught? It makes his blood run cold to think of it now. Youthful exuberance. They thought they'd been careful with birth control, but obviously not. In the end, Hannah had taken maternity leave, stating that the father was some one-off she met on shore leave during their stint in space.

Nobody ever looked to Lieutenant Hackett, the up-and-coming Alliance hero. He remembers the absolute shame he felt when not only did his career remain intact, but he wasn't able to be with Riley except as a friend to the family. He wasn't even there when she was born – he was pushing the boundaries of human space on exploration trips.

"You're thinking really hard about something," says Hannah, and she leads him over to the chair and sits him down. She perches on the burnt armrest. "You want to talk about it?"

"I'm sorry," he says after a few moments. She's startled, so he elaborates, "Sorry I left you alone all those years ago."

To his surprise, she smiles softly. "This war is making us maudlin." She glances over at Riley. "Besides, you don't have anything to apologize for. Between the two of us, I think I got the better part of the deal. You missed all the fun bits. Did you know when she was fourteen, she decided that she wasn't going to follow me into the Alliance as she'd always planned? No, she was going to be a music star instead."

Hackett's lips quirk. "Hard to imagine."

"You have no idea. You haven't heard her sing."

He chuckles and reaches inside his pocket, pulling out a now badly fraying photograph. He holds it out to Hannah, his laughter dying. She swallows thickly and takes it. They don't say anything, and they don't have to. It was always like this between them, this understanding. Hackett's been with women since then, loved women since then, but it's amazing how quickly he and Hannah fall in together, like it was yesterday instead of over thirty years ago.

Hannah takes that picture, and she props it on Riley's beside. The discrepancy between the elated little girl in the sand and the prostrate woman lined with scars is so obvious it's painful. Hannah looks up, like she's going to say something, but there's the sound of footfalls and then Lawson is in the doorway. Her hair is in complete disarray, flat on one side like she fell asleep on it.

"I've got something," she says, with just the barest breathlessness to her voice.

She holds up a syringe, and Hackett can't help but wonder if this is the miracle he's been waiting for.


	9. Nine

_**Forfeit **_

_Nine:_

It's early, too early. From his place atop a scorched skyscraper roof, Hackett hunches himself against the chilly breeze that tumbles over his body. He's getting too old for this. Before the war, he would've denied it vehemently, would've affirmed that he was ready and willing for another good decade of military service. Now, leadership is wearing him thin. Thinner. He feels like his fatigues look – worn down, with threads coming loose and holes just beginning to appear.

Not that he'd ever tell this to anyone, not even to Victus who stands next to him now. They've become good friends, he and the Primarch, and though neither one discusses anything overtly personal in their conversations, he can see the strain on the turian's face.

The sun starts to creep over the horizon, spilling pink over the edge of the sky. Hackett can't help but be reminded of Riley somehow. Since Miranda started administering those injections, whatever they were, a week ago, the colour has started to slowly come back into his daughter's face. She's no longer a living tombstone to her former life, but she's not who she used to be either. Pins still poke out of legs while the bone sets. A veritable subway map has been scarred along the curves of her face. A breathing tube is still down her throat. But she's healing, and that's all Hackett can hope for.

Every day, he wants to stay with her, wants to watch it happen. Every day, he leaves her and Hannah and returns to his duties because he's the only thing these people have, and he's certainly not going to leave them wanting. So Riley remains like a blooming flower, changing each time he visits, presenting him with one little miracle (a closed wound, a disappearing bruise) every time he sees her.

Above, five dreadnaughts hitch cables to the corpse of a dead Reaper. It's all mechanised; Hackett and Victus were adamant about this. Even dead, Hackett doesn't trust the Reapers. After seeing the former President, the last thing he wants is large groups of military personnel reduced to mindless drones.

What they need to do is get these damn things off his planet. Hence the dreadnaughts. It was Urdnot Wrex of all people who provided the best solution. Simply put, they're towing the corpses as close to the centre of the Sol system as possible, then launching them into the sun to be incinerated. There's a simplicity to the plan that Hackett finds refreshing after all the bullshit during the war.

He and Victus watch the process without comment until Hackett's arm buzzes, sending vibrations up his arm. He expects a voice call from some senior member of something, somewhere, asking for his approval or his opinion or his orders. It's none of those things. It's a short text message from Hannah.

_Come. Now._

It suddenly feels like he's choking, like there's a whole orange shoved all the way down his throat. He's not sure if the message brings good news or bad, but either way his heart is beating like a war drum from ancient times and his mouth has gone dry.

He turns to Victus, licking his lips to try and regain feeling. "I have to go."

Victus tilts his head. "Everything okay?"

"It's something with – it's Shepard," says Hackett, swallowing down the name _Riley _even while choking on his own cowardice.

Victus, he doesn't know the whole story. Again, it's that rule about not getting too personal. But there's something in his face that – even if he doesn't guess the truth, even if he's sure there isn't any dark secret there – that says he understands. Hackett remembers Riley's report from Tuchanka, remembers the mention of a Tarquin Victus who gave his life to complete his mission. If could anyone understand Hackett's current situation, it would be the Primarch.

There's more than one reason why Hackett feels a kinship with Victus.

"Then you should go," says Victus evenly. He waves a hand at the Reaper corpse lifting into the sky. "I can keep an eye on this."

Hackett nods. "Thanks."

He grabs a shuttle back to the hospital. The crowds have died out slightly in front, petered away during the night while the weather was too cold to bear. A few have camped out and stand in front of the guards with homemade candles and signs. Most days, Hackett wants to march right out there and ask what good it's doing for them to be standing there when there's a whole world to be rebuilt. To tell them that Riley Shepard means more to him than they could ever fathom, and he still makes a point of spending most of every day trying to put the world right so that when she wakes up, maybe she has something to wake up to.

But he doesn't today, just like always. Because on some level, what these people are looking for is hope. They have nothing else, and they can't face the grim reality that surrounds them – a reality of makeshift camps, and food rations, and boiled water, and mass graves – so they look to their savior, their messiah, and they wait for her to rise and for there to be some new Easter Sunday.

They're not waiting for Riley. They're waiting for a miracle. And really, though it might annoy him, though it might move him to righteous indignation, Hackett can't fault them for that.

The speeder sets down on a parking lot to the side. It barely touches the ground before Hackett's pushed open the door and started striding towards the doors. He moves through the labyrinthine hallways, his shoes slapping against the antique tiles. When he reaches Riley's hallway, when he sees the guards clustered closer to her door than is necessary, when he sees the nurses and doctors flowing in and out, their steps purposeful and expressions harried, the world slows.

He remembers that moment, hearing Riley's voice on the Citadel before the thing went live. How she'd gasped and groaned. How she'd been unable to even finish her sentences. Throughout his long career, Hackett had heard comrades die over the comm link. He knew what it sounded like. He knew then he was listening to his daughter die.

He doesn't ever want to live through her death again. Twice is enough. Twice is more than most people get. Three times would kill him, one way or another.

Forcing his feet forward, he pushes through the guards and comes into the room. Hannah is seated at the bedside, one of Riley's hands in her own. She looks up, and her nose is too red, tear tracks trailing down her cheeks. But then she smiles, a brilliant smile, and glances down at Riley, gesturing with her head towards the door.

Blue eyes – _his_ blue eyes, albeit in a different, much more attractive face – swing to him. They soften slightly when they notice him. She raises one bandaged arm as though to salute, but he sees the lines crease her face at the effort and with two steps across the room, he gently takes her hand and places it back down on the bed. He forces himself to let go, because even lying there, staring up at him with his eyes, she had no idea that he's more than just her superior officer.

The doctor has been standing at the end of the bed surveying something on a datapad, but now he sets it down and moves forward. Hackett backs out of the way so the man can bend over Riley. He says, "I'm going to be removing your breathing tube now, okay Commander?"

Riley inclines her head, and Hackett watches as the procedure takes place. When it's done, she gulps down the water Hannah holds up to her lips before falling backwards onto her pillow, sweat staining her forehead from even that little bit of exertion. Riley opens her mouth, attempts to say something, but no words come out. She frowns, and tries again. It takes her a few tries before Hackett makes out what she's saying, her voice hoarse from disuse.

_Where's Anderson?_

The image of the man's body, charred and broken and unrecognizable comes to mind, the lips burned away so the corpse could do nothing more than grin morbidly at all onlookers, and the limbs burnt down into little more than twisted branches. He and Hannah meet glances, and he can see in Hannah's face that she wants to lie, wants to keep this news for later, but Hackett… he knows that if he doesn't tell her now, there will be hell to pay.

"The Admiral didn't make it," says Hackett quietly, and it's not pride exactly he feels at keeping his voice steady, but it's close enough. Of course, that all threatens to go down the drain when he sees Riley's face.

He hasn't seen her cry since she was a child, but she does now, her lower lip quivering. Large, steady tears roll down her face and then the sobbing starts. They're quiet at first, but then they grow louder and louder in pitch, until her whole body shakes. Riley brings both her hands up to her face, hiding it from them, shaking off Hannah's attempts at comfort.

She cries like she's just lost her best friend. Like she's lost family. Like she's lost, well, like she's lost her father.

The doctor has made himself scarce, and now Hackett does the same. He should stay, should make some attempt at comfort, but it wouldn't be professional and right now, Riley doesn't need another bomb dropped on her. So he walks back down the hallways until he reaches the doorway outside. There's a small park in the back, stalks of dead flowers reaching into the sky. He finds an old wooden bench, rotting and smelling of mildew and he sits down, running one hand over his stubbled jaw.

David always did like Riley. Called her a natural. Doted on her. Did for her what Hackett was always too scared – too paranoid – to do, lest anyone take too close a look at their DNA records. And it's clear now, even if it wasn't before, that Riley loved him. It grips him tight, the jealousy does, before it's swirled together with guilt.

He's surprised when the tears start. He doesn't sob like Riley, he just sits by himself and lets the tears come. He doesn't know if he's crying for David or because of him. He doesn't know if it's because Riley's awake or because it was almost easier to pretend when she wasn't.


	10. Ten

_**Forfeit**_

_Ten:_

The extranet lights up with the news of Riley's awakening. Hackett distances himself over the following days, unable to bridge the gap between CO and father, and not even sure if it's the right thing to do. He gets several messages from Hannah, all saying the same thing: _come be with us, she'd like to see you_. He wants to, no question, especially since Riley's name is on everyone's lips. But he doesn't.

What he does try to do is try to get in contact with the Normandy. So far, no luck. He tries not to worry, tries to imagine all the possibilities that would prevent their response. They could be passing through solar wind, their comm relays buzzing with only static. They could be passing through some lonely part of space where an extranet buoy was destroyed, preventing triangulation of the signal. They could have cut communications to preserve the reserve power cells for the voyage. There are a million and five reasons why they won't answer, and only half of them are good news.

He leans back in his desk chair, removing his hat and running a hand over his thinning hair. Grey sunlight filters in through his grimy window, and he sighs. After months of spending every available moment with Hannah and Riley, he doesn't know how to be alone anymore. He finds himself fidgeting, drumming his fingers on the edge of his desk, taking up his pen only to set it back down.

Earth deserves better. Better than him. Better than a man with only half a mind for the job. Unfortunately for everyone, there is nobody else.

Hackett thinks of the weeping he saw upon leaving the hospital. He stayed a few hours, and by then some nurse or patient or aide had leaked the news. People stood outside the gates in droves, in waves, their heads bobbing up and down in a sea of people. Some clung to each other for comfort, thin arms entwined as they cried tears for a woman they'd never met – a woman they'd probably never meet – but who was probably more real to them than their families.

Someone, somewhere, had ordered extra contingents of guards, and they stood like a flesh wall against the impossible tide of people. Only these people, they weren't a tsunami, they were rain slowly filling up a well. They didn't push against the guards, didn't try their luck, merely swayed where they stood, as if content to be even that close to Riley.

He can't deny he felt some measure of annoyance, some surge of bitterness. In many ways, he was no different than any of these people. During the war, he pinned all his hopes and machinations on Riley. Now, despite their shared blood, he might as well be a stranger.

The whole time she was comatose, he ran through all the possible ways to tell her the truth. Sometimes Hannah was with him, sometimes not. Sometimes she cried, he cried, they both cried. Other times there was calm acceptance. There are mornings when he wakes, still bogged down by the foggy mists of dreams, and he forgets that these daydreams weren't true, that they didn't happen, and that an impossible wall separates him from what he wants most.

Logically – and this is how Hackett operates ninety-five percent of the time, and why it should be different now, he doesn't know – logically, he knows that there is one simple way to fix this. One simple way to bring his life together with Riley's, with Hannah's.

But Hackett has never been good at admitting his own faults, even if they led to the greater good. And though his decisions saved everyone, on some level he can't understand how Riley would forgive him if he can't forgive himself.

There's a slight knock on the door, and whoever it is doesn't wait before entering.

An electric shot of surprise jolts through his system when Miranda Lawson closes the door behind her, crossing her arms. She doesn't look uncomfortable in the least, leaning back against the door to stop either his as yet untried escape or her own.

"You could've sent me a memo to let me know she woke up," says Lawson, a faint ring of bitterness stained on her words.

"I figured you'd find out soon enough," says Hackett. "Your information is usually impeccable."

"You try working with no contacts, with no technology, and we'll see how you do," grouses Lawson, and beneath her perfect façade, she looks only marginally better than she did those weeks she was working on Riley. She had bags under her eyes that will take days, weeks, months of relaxation to get rid of, and that's a luxury nobody has at the moment. There's a pause, and she comes forward and sits opposite to Hackett.

Hackett folds his hands on his desk and waits. They stare each other down, and he can't help but wonder which of them is the more stubborn, which one will look away first. In the end, it's Lawson, but she doesn't drop her gaze or relents, and seems to simply decide their little staring contest is beneath her notice. Those engineered blue eyes turn to the window, muscles between her brows twitching.

"Any word from the Normandy?" she asks.

"None."

Lawson accepts this with an incline of her head. She steeples her hands in front of her. "Any reason why you've been hiding here instead of spending time at the hospital?"

That word, _hiding_, it grates on him even though he's knows it's accurate. He tugs at the collar of his uniform. "There's work to be done," and it sounds lame, even to his ears.

One of Lawson's perfectly sculpted eyebrows raises nearly to her hairline. "Is that so?" she drawls in such a way that he wants to tell her, _yes it is_, but he keeps his mouth shut because any spark of anger will give him away. As if he's not completely transparent already. "You didn't get to be with her the first time she woke up," continues Lawson. "You should be there now. You should tell her the truth."

He runs a gnarled hand down his face and wonders when he got so old. "It's not that simple."

"Of course not," agrees Lawson. "Neither was defeating the Reapers. Nothing worth doing is ever simple." She scoots her chair forward, bringing her elbows to rest on the opposite side of the desk. She stares at him again, and this time, it's Hackett who looks away first. "When we were bringing her back – when Cerberus was bringing her back the first time, you helped." She smiles, slightly.

Way back, he'd been on the Citadel getting some lunch at one of the Presidium cafes when this leggy brunette had joined him at his table. He held himself in pretty high esteem, but even he wasn't so foolish as to think this was romantic interest. His suspicions were confirmed when she pushed a datapad across the table. His throat closed up at the charred corpse floating in a clear tank, especially when he read the note underneath- _Subject: Commander Riley Shepard._

His feelings had rapidly degenerated into anger, though he kept tight reign of himself. He laid his hands flat on the table and very quietly, said, "Is this some sort of joke?"

The woman, who he'd later learn was called Miranda Lawson, remained serious faced. "Does it look like I'm laughing?"

Hackett traced the figure with one of his fingers, frowning. "I want her body returned."

"I'm afraid not," said Lawson. "We need her. The galaxy needs her. And we're going to bring her back."

He doesn't get to show off much, but in his youth Hackett had a fine hand at all things science and technology related. So back then, he frowned and his irritation and anger doubled. He was about to say, _to hell with decorum_ and bring this woman in for questioning, bring her in to be interrogated so he could find out where his daughter's body was being held for some sicko's deluded science experiment, when she pushed over another datapad, this one with scientific calculations and readouts.

The more Hackett read, the more it made sense, and the more it made sense, despite the impossible odds, the more that most dangerous feeling grew and grew, filling him up, so that when Lawson said, "We need some genetic donations, Admiral – and you're her closest viable match," with this pointed look in her eye… So that even when he noticed the black and gold logo adorning her chest, and realized exactly who had the credits to pay for this… So that even when he realized what this could cost him, what he might lose, or what he might gain he said, "Yes."

That feeling then, it was hope. Hope that he would have a chance to make things right. To tell her the truth.

Lawson seems to be reading his mind, an uncanny ability of hers that he doesn't quite trust. Her smile grows, but it's softer. "Don't you have something to go do?"

Hackett sighs, dropping his hands into his lap. Finally, he stands, grabbing his hat from the corner of his desk and pushes his way around the room. His hand stops on the doorknob, and he doesn't turn around.

"Miranda," he says.

"I know," she replies.

And he leaves, remembering how on their last meeting, after the blood had been drawn, the biopsies done, the organs spliced, in a haze of medication and exhaustion, he'd grabbed her by the arm and whispered, _thank you_.


	11. Eleven

_****Sorry for the delay. Life has been really hectic and this... this was a hard one to write. I hope you all like it - I'm updating it quite early/late in the day because I will have zero time tomorrow and I wanted it up asap. (Also, to the anon who pointed out that I called Shepard_ Kayleigh _in the last chapter... Yep, that was a mistake. That's what I get for writing two fics with two different Sheps simultaneously. Thanks for pointing it out - I can't believe I missed it! xo) _

* * *

_**Forfeit**_

_Eleven:_

He followed his feet without any real idea about what he was going to do when he got there. There had been the daydreams – years of them, one after every battle she managed to claw her way out of, after every commendation she'd ever been granted – but those, those were a far cry from reality. There's one question that sits on his mind, that he expects to fall from Riley's lips, and that question is: _why did you say nothing, not even at the end of the world?_

Truth is, he doesn't know. Truth is, that's a complete lie.

Truth is, he offered Riley up like some sacrifice, like he was some biblical patriarch ready to slay her for the greater good. She was the best shot to save the galaxy, bar none. He needed her focused. He needed the lines clearly drawn. He needed to force himself not to remember that this was his blood, that this was a person he helped create, and that he might be sending her to death every day.

Hackett hangs back outside the hospital room when he sees a small boy with bandages over half his face sitting at Shepard's bedside. The tyke is maybe six, his one bright brown eye peering at Shepard like she's Santa Claus and Superman rolled into one.

"Are you really Commander Shepard?" asks the boy, his voice full of wonder. His hands are clenching the blanket closest to him.

"Really, really," says Riley, with a smile that probably causes her more pain than she'd ever admit.

"How come you didn't tell me?" the boy demands. "You're the one who stopped the robots!"

"I had a lot of help," she says with a headshake. She winces, but she's keeping up the illusion of strength for the sake of this little boy. "I did a lot, but I didn't do it by myself. Everybody came together."

"My nurse is an asari," says the boy with a nod. "She said she came here to help get rid of the robots." There's a pause, and the boy looks down at his hands, eyebrows leaning together. It's a very adult look, the look Hackett has seen on the faces of soldiers, of doctors, of those who lost everything. It's an impossibly old look for a child. "My daddy was a soldier. He went off to fight and never came back. Antaiea says he might come back, that they're finding lost people every day." He turns his impossibly large eyes on Riley. "Can I live with you if he doesn't come?"

Riley swallows thickly, bringing her mangled hand to rest on the boy's much smaller ones. She tries for words, but manages only a croak on the first go. Her eyes are turned away from the door, and her lower lip trembles in exactly the way it did when she fell on the beach all those years ago, sand in her eyes, crying and reaching for him, for her father.

"Of course," she says, drawing one finger around the curve of the boy's cheek. "Of course you can." She pauses, her eyes turning to the ceiling. She licks her lips. "So long as you're not afraid of turians."

The boy perks up. "I share my room with one. His name is Septimus. He tells really bad jokes."

"Good," says Riley with a smile, and the scars across her face zigzag into new patterns with how wide it goes. "But now you should probably go back to your own room before Antaiea gets worried."

The boy hops down from the chair next to Riley's bed, and starts to move away. He pauses, turning back, frown dotting his face. "You'll still be here tomorrow, won't you?"

"Of course I will, Graham," assures Riley with a little nod.

Graham, he waves at her and skitters past Hackett and down the hall. Hackett watches him go, his small legs pumping as he careens his body around hospital staff and patients. The skin on Hackett's face feels as though it's been stretched thin over his bones, and he can't figure out why. Something about that boy, something about the way Riley spoke to him, the way she touched him, it was so very, very painful. He never got to see Riley at this age and now, most of the photos of her were gone, save those few that Hannah had copied to her omni-tool. All that time, gone.

"Sir?"

Jolted out of his reverie, he turns and sees Riley watching him. The smile is still on her face, but it's smaller now, more private. Probably far less painful too. She gestures to the chair, and he removes his cap, wringing it between his hands and crossing the room to take a seat. It's still warm from the boy, and he doesn't know if that makes him feel better or worse. He forces himself to breath slowly, in and out, in and out, to maintain that façade of calm and steely determination that he's worn as a mask for longer than he cares to think about.

"Shepard," he says, even though Riley threatens to tumble through his lips. "How are you doing?"

She starts to shrug, but her whole body tenses like she's touched a live wire and she slowly lowers it back down. She looks better, but that doesn't mean she looks good. Her hair is growing in unevenly, looking like a suburban lawn that hasn't been mowed in a while, crab grass sneaking in on the edges. One arm is functional, but the other is still wrapped in gauze, and from the bits that peek out from the bandages, it's likely to be scarred for a good long while – scarred with tissue that may make it difficult to use. Is it wrong of him, that he notices it's her off arm, that he realizes she'll still be able to shoot if she wants to?

"I've been better," she says lightly. Her eyes turn down, mouth thinning. "I've also been worse." She takes a deep breath, and he can see her gather that thought and push it to the back of her mind. "What about you? Mom says you're working yourself ragged, and that's why you haven't been down." She waves her hand faintly. "Not that it matters that you haven't been down. I know duty comes first."

What a perfect little soldier he created. What a perfect little hero. He leans forward, propping his elbows on her bed and clasping his hands together, his forehead resting against them. "I should have come," he says. His heart is bludgeoning the inside of his chest, so hard it's painful. "Truth is, I have to apologize, Shepard. I've done you wrong."

"Sir," she says, and in one word it's a denial. She reaches out to put a hand on his arm, and though he wants to lean into it, though he wants to accept her comfort, he moves back, out of her touch. Her hand stills where it was for a moment, then falls limply back onto the bed.

"No, Shepard," he says, and even to him, he sounds like a weary old man instead of a decisive military leader. "Don't give me an out. Not now." He frowns, and he can't find the words. Giving speeches to recruits, that's the easy bit. This? He's never been so blank in his life. "I need to tell you that I'm sorry. That I've kept something from you for a long time. That it wasn't fair, but that it was, I think, necessary." His throat clamps tight, and he takes a deep breath, remembering that moment of weightlessness before the plummet when he saw her name on that list of casualties.

"Hackett, stop," she says, no, orders. Elbows down, she props herself into a ninety degree angle, and this time her touch connects. But he sees what it costs her in the sheen of sweat that glides down her face, in the flush of her cheeks. He opens his mouth to protest – that she is interrupting, that she's causing herself pain – but she gives him this _look_, and it reminds him of Hannah only magnified by ten thousand and this, he thinks, this is the woman who dragged us to salvation, who carried us all on her back for months – for years.

He's stunned momentarily, and she takes that moment to crack his foundation.

"I know," she says quietly, her eyes never leaving his face. They're too bright, and she offers him that same small private smile as before. His throat goes dry, and his eyes search her face, and he can't figure out if she knows what she's implying she knows, or if there's been some horrible confusion. He must be as transparent as a sheet of glass, because she takes pity on him. "I know… I know you're my father." She takes a deep breath and holds it, waiting for his reaction.

But what is his reaction? Hackett feels like he's been flushed into space, his limbs akimbo, body twirling endlessly out into oblivion. He asks the only thing he can think of. "How?"

There's a story to the expression on her face. "Let's just say that I called in a favour with the Shadow Broker during the war. I wanted to know just in case things went South." She trails off here, looking down her legs – still, from what Hackett gathers, unusable – and her arm.

Why is there so little air in this room? "Then you knew through most of the war?" asks Hackett, his mouth moving as though it were full of peanut butter. "You knew when I sent you up to the Citadel?"

"Yeah," she says, and squeezes her hand on his arm. Then she smiles at him again. "Yours was the last voice I heard before…" Her eyes go distant, her mouth slack, and she's reliving some memory, some nightmare that Hackett can't begin to fathom. But her words rattle around in his head, so he takes her hand in his two and plants a kiss on it, the first kiss since he kissed her goodbye all those years ago, and she's crying now like she was like then and so is he only it's not the same. It's not even remotely the same at all.


	12. Twelve

_****Thank you all once again for the amazing support. I had to hammer this out today or else I wouldn't get any work done. Enjoy.  
_

* * *

_**Forfeit**_

_Twelve:_

Hackett's hands are clenched around his upper arms, and he knows he'll have bruises tomorrow from where his fingers are digging into his skin. He steels himself against flinching, but with every grunt, with every cry, it gets harder and harder. Hannah's on one side, her thumbnail caught between her teeth and the lines on her face carved deep with worry. Miranda's on the other, a frown on her face as she leans against the wall. If he didn't know better, he'd think her bored.

Riley struggles through her steps, sweat gleaming down her face. Her dark hair is plastered over her eyes, and every inch of her body trembles with exertion. Her hands grip the railings tight as she shuffles first one leg, and then the other, each one contained in a metal cage meant to keep her upright. So far, it's working.

It's not paternal pride that convinces him that she'll overcome her injuries. She's a survivor. But he doesn't delude himself either. These are just the first steps of many, and there remains the very likely chance that she will never again be the soldier she once was. He knows this. He can see that she knows it too from her clenched teeth and white knuckles. He can see that loss looming heavy on her.

Is it terrible to admit that he's relieved? She's given enough. She doesn't need to do any more. And he's a hypocrite, because people would say the same thing of him, that he's been through the First Contact War and now the Reaper War, that he's held together some semblance of order on a decimated planet in a vast and broken galaxy, but he wouldn't give up the burden for a damn minute. Not even one. No matter how exhausted he is, no matter how tired he is of the political bullshit and the back alley executions of indoctrinated officials, no matter how much blood he has on his hands or how many prayers are whispered for him in the cold depths of the night, he wouldn't give it up.

He's a soldier. It's all he's ever been. How could he give it up now, when he's one of the few figures of authority left to hold together this mess?

Riley would say the same thing, if anyone asked. That being a soldier is what she is. That she grew up on ships and knew from the very first that she was destined for this. That even if she tried anything else, it would be a job but it wouldn't be _her._

Sometimes, they're too alike for comfort.

With a cry of frustration, Shepard's legs crumple and she falls to the ground, her hand still fastened on the railings. Hannah moves forward, arms outstretched, and Hackett is overcome by déjà vu. She used to do the exact same thing when Riley was a baby learning to walk, only Riley's no baby now and she shoos her mother away with sharp, annoyed motions.

"You know," says Miranda, conversationally, "this would go a lot easier if you'd let me implement…"

"I am _not_ letting myself be experimented on again, thank you Miranda," Riley grinds out, breath coming in deep pants as she tenses her muscles to try again.

"You make it sound like you were a science fair entry," says Miranda, pushing off from the wall and crossing her arms. "But data from the Lazarus project was what helped you wake up in the first place."

"You're right," admits Riley, her legs wobbling like a newborn colt's as she struggles to stand. "But the answer is still no." Her muscles cord along her arms. "I want to do this by myself."

"Honey," say Hannah, but doesn't get any further when a dark glare is levelled in her direction. She looks at Hackett with a _say something_ motion.

"You're doing great, Shepard," says Hackett, and can't help the curl of his lip as Hannah's hands twist into claws like she's going to strangle him.

"Thank you, _dad_," says Riley pointedly, and Hackett's not sure if it's directed towards him or Hannah.

Either way, his tongue swells in his mouth and he can't do anything more than offer a slight incline of his head – something she misses in her effort to get back to her feet. She's asked him repeatedly to call her Riley, but after years of swallowing her given name down, it's a hard adjustment. For her part, she seems to have taken everything in stride, and though she still throws him a _Hackett _or an _Admiral_ when they've got company, she's been testing out the waters on _dad_ for the last few weeks.

There should be a doctor here, but, well, one of the tenements collapsed five days ago burying nearly five hundred people in rubble. Hackett called in architects and construction workers – a handful of each, at best – and they'd pointed out the flaw and volunteered to check the rest of the structures. But, they said, given the scale of the Reaper damage and the mould that could be building up on exposed materials in the soggy London atmosphere… Well, they said, we can't check them all.

Point being, all the doctors were taking care of those survivors they'd managed to pull out of the rubble. Hackett had gone and overseen some of the rescue efforts, had visited with some of the victims, but in the end he was neither doctor nor paramedic. He redistributed resources to account for the accident and moved on. He's getting remarkably good at thinking of people as statistics rather than casualties – something he's learned in a long, long career.

Riley wobbles her way back to her feet again, and Miranda beside him gives a grunt of annoyance. "Shepard, you know what the definition of a madman is?"

"Me?" queries Shepard, throwing them all a strained grin.

Miranda pauses, considering. "True enough."

Hannah grabs his hand, clinging it tight to her chest, her eyes all for Riley. They watch their daughter stumble through several more steps before reaching the end. She lowers herself down, touching her forehead to the ground, every breath rattling her chest. Her eyes flutter shut. Hackett squeezes Hannah's hand and then moves forward, crouching over and putting his hands on Shepard's shoulders.

"Let's get you some rest," he says, and she wearily throws her arms around his neck. She smells sour, like she just ran a marathon instead of simply walking across a room, but he doesn't care. He lifts her as gently as possible and sets her in the awaiting wheelchair. Her head lolls to the side.

"You don't have to push yourself so hard," says Hannah, coming up beside them and pushing Riley's sweaty hair out of her face. "You've done enough."

"I want," murmurs Riley, "I want to be able to walk before the Normandy gets back. I don't want them to see me like this." She struggles to keep her eyes open.

She's not fooling him. It's not the entire crew she wants to hide her injuries from, it's one particular crew member. His insides seize, and he's glad she doesn't ask for a status update because he wouldn't be able to give any good news. Still no communication to or from the Normandy. Still absolutely no reason to believe they're even alive. But Riley believes it, and so does he, because he's seen the faces of all those men and women as they looked at his daughter, and he knows they'll fight whatever comes their way to see her again.

"He won't care," says Hackett.

Riley's eyes fly open, and she frowns slightly, as though trying to figure out how much he knows and how he knows it. It's too far beyond her energy level, so she sighs and says, "You don't know him. He'll care. A lot. Especially since I got him taken out of the fight." This last, she says with a faint smile.

"He'll carry a grudge," agrees Miranda with a slight smile.

Riley groans, even as her chin settles onto her chest.

Hannah is looking between her daughter and him and the question hangs there. Hackett turns to Miranda. "Could you take her back to her room? We'll follow in a minute."

"Of course."

It takes about as long as it takes for the door to close before Hannah whirls on him. Her hands are on her hips, head inclined towards him, and he remembers that this is a Rear Admiral and that she didn't get any favours to rise to the position. "What the hell was that about?" she demands. "Who is this guy, and how come everyone seems to know about him except me?"

What was he supposed to call it? "Riley fell in love with one of her non-Alliance crew members," says Hackett tactfully, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Garrus Vakarian."

Her eyes scan something invisible, and then her frown intensifies. "Vakarian – wasn't there someone at her funeral by that name? A turian?" Her eyes widen and she stares at Hackett, who only offers up a shrug in return. She visibly buttons herself up. "I mean, that's… not what I expected." She scratches her forehead. "Jesus, I still remember when they were the bad guys, the scary alien aggressors shown on the news vids. Riley had nightmares for weeks that one was going to come and eat her."

There's a joke there, but because this is the mother of his child, Hackett leaves it the hell alone.

Instead, he throws an arm around her shoulders and says, "If he comes back, he deserves her."

Hannah nods, wrapping her arms around his middle. "The world sure has changed," she whispers.

Somehow, he doesn't think she's just talking about Riley's interspecies relationship. He drops a kiss onto her hair and wants to reassure her, but everything he thinks up is too close to a lie. In the end, he simply leads her back to the room where their daughter is waiting.


	13. Thirteen

_****I managed to carve into my hectic schedule to shoot this out for you guys. Every time I think, "Next chapter, the end?" something new falls out of my brain. I promise that I'm still working on this - and _Trade of Kings _too, though that one more slowly - but I've started composing a new fic and... it's a doozy. I've been writing instead of sleeping, whoops. Anyways, enjoy!_

* * *

_**Forfeit**_

_Thirteen:_

Hackett fights the urge to hover. Instead, he leaves that to Hannah, who circles Riley like a moon caught in the gravitational field a planet. Her hands are small birds that keep swooping down for a moment to rest on Riley's arm, or her shoulder, before taking off again in search of something else. Riley, for her part, bears it with remarkable restraint considering, but Hackett can see from the set of her jaw that any moment now, she's going to lose her temper.

"She's fine," he says, putting his hands on Hannah's shoulders and gently leading her away. When one of her hands reaches for their daughter, he captures it and holds it tight. He's rewarded with a closed smile, more loving than he thought he'd ever get.

Riley outpaces them, her arms moving like pistons in Alliance fatigues as she propels herself forward on her crutches. Her hair has grown long enough to throw into a small, scraggly ponytail, yet a few delicate strands cling to her forehead. Though he can only see the back of her, Hackett knows that her expression is set into sheer stubbornness. It was that very quality, that very expression, that he trusted to win them the war.

But this, this is not war in the traditional sense, and even though he keeps his hand steady in Hannah's, he can sympathize with the protective urge. Riley has been making remarkable progress, thanks in no part to her cybernetics. This is her second week on the crutches, and she's spent much of it in the private garden adjacent the hospital. Though the plants are dead, brown fingers that reach into the sky, she's enjoyed seeing actual sky above her. Most days that little boy, Graham, comes and plays with her, bringing her various objects that they examine together, their foreheads nearly touching, voices hushed in conspiracy.

It's a side of Riley that he's never gotten to see. While he never doubted for an instant that she was capable of kindness and gentleness, he became so accustomed to seeing her post-op, blood and bruises smattering her face. She'd been a soldier, a weapon, not his daughter.

Now, now he wonders if she'll start a family. Though her choice of life partner means that biological grandchildren are highly unlikely – and here he pushes away the thought that after this long without contact, it was highly unlikely the _Normandy _survived – when he sees her with that little boy, it hardly matters. There are more than enough orphans left to squat in the squalor of the world they were supposed to inherit.

Hackett asked her, right before her mother arrived earlier, why she was so intent on doing this.

"I supposedly saved the world," she said, sliding her arms into her crutches. "I want to see what's left of it."

"And if it's not what you'd hoped for?" he asked, apprehension punching him in the gut.

"When the opposite was complete annihilation," she said, standing, "I'll take what I can get."

What he should have done is warn her. Warn her about the way her name has been said like a sermon in the refugee camps since she was found alive. Warn her of the idols, of the paintings, of the prayers. Warn her that in the days to come, the name Shepard will be leeched of all its humanity and made into something more, something like Jesus or Buddha or Confucius.

He didn't, because he knew that one of the reasons she was doing this was to distract herself. That comm call still hadn't come. Her crew still hadn't returned home. And though she hadn't yet given up hope – he could see it in the way she watched the skies out her window at night – she was pragmatic enough to realize that she needed more than hope to survive. She needed a purpose, however slight.

The purpose she'd chosen was the boy Graham, though she'd confided in the dead of night that she wasn't sure she could be what he needed.

This outing is her resurrection, and it's her test.

Holding open the doors for her, he lays a hand on her shoulder and receives a smile in return. He hangs back and makes Hannah do the same as their daughter slowly descends the stairs. Though it's been months and the crowd was beginning to thin, today supplicants are here en masse. Guards stand ready, but amazingly, the people make no move to surge forward.

Riley reaches the edge of the people who all stare at her, breathing as one collective entity. As he approaches, he can hear Riley making polite conversation with those in front. They attempt to give her flowers, sculptures, whatever they can, but she gestures with her crutches to show that she has no way of accepting. The people, they move, each touching Riley for the barest moment before clutching their hands to their chests as though cradling something precious.

Hannah's hand convulses around his as they watch Riley go down the line. "I can't decide if I'm the proudest I've ever been," she says, "or if I'm terrified of what this will mean."

He knows what she means. To everyone in that crowd, she's not Riley – she's Commander Shepard, their savior.

This carries on for the next ten minutes, as Riley greets everyone individually, asking their stories and wishing them well.

An old woman manages to push her way to the front of the line. Her hand is held by a small girl, maybe three, whose other hand is wrapped around a doll. With slow, ungainly movements, Riley lowers herself down to the girl's level despite the fact that she'll be aching later. Though he can't hear what's passing between the two, he's seen her enough with Graham to know the exact tone she'll take, the cadence her speech will skip. The toddler holds out her doll. This, Riley does accept, hugging it to her chest and clearly asking if the girl is sure. A nod is her reply, before the girl hides her face in the folds of her grandmother's coat.

That's when the shot rings out.

Hours later, Hackett will still have no idea where the assailant came from, only that he was mere meters away from Riley when he pulled his pistol and fired. Hackett calls out to the guards moments before the inevitable happens. For all her injuries, Riley must realize what's going on and throws herself in front of the girl and her grandmother. Hackett vomits his heart into his mouth when he sees her, draped over that smaller form, blood soaking into her Alliance-issue shirt.

He is on his knees beside her, bundling her in his arms. Beyond him, he can hear one of the krogan guards pummelling the assailant. He turns to Hannah and orders, "Get them to stop. I want him for questioning."

Indignation and panic flare in her eyes, but she does as she's told. Hackett, meanwhile, looks down to find Riley blinking at him.

"No critical injuries to report, Admiral," she says with the hint of a wry smile. "Though try telling that to my shoulder."

Hackett starts to remove his jacket until he's confronted with half a dozen. People in the crowd are offering their jackets, handkerchiefs, hats, even the shirts off their backs. He takes the cleanest of these – what looks like a dish towel, though it's anyone's guess why someone had this on their person – and presses it into Shepard's wound.

"I think that's enough excitement for one day," he says gravely. "Time to go back inside."

"Enough excitement?" echoes Riley. "But I've only had one person shooting at me. That's a slow day, for sure." Her wince as he lifts her up betrays her lightheartedness. She turns her head towards the crowd. "Anyone else hurt? Phoebe?"

"She's fine," says the old woman before, coming forward with the small girl wrapped in her arms. "Afraid, perhaps, but uninjured." The old woman's eyes shine. "Thank you, Commander."

"I'm a soldier," says Riley, "It's what I do." While some might call this modesty, Hackett knows that this is the tenet by which she lives her life. He knows because it's exactly the same way both he and Hannah view their service.

He's not a young man, but he finds strength enough to carry Riley back up to her hospital room. He's just setting her in bed when Hannah arrives with the doctor, sweeping one irritated look over him before dismissing his existence. She wanders over and runs her hand over Riley's hair. "Are you alright, sweetheart?"

"You know," says Riley in the same offhand manner, "I _have_ been shot before."

"The difference being, I wasn't around to see it then," retorts Hannah.

The doctor gets to work on the shoulder, muttering about injured parties making themselves more injured. Then he goes on a tirade about how guns are the bane of the galaxy until Riley, in a fit of helpfulness, reminds him that guns were what won the war, and that attacking the Reapers with spears and swords wouldn't likely have been a viable means of repelling the invaders. She's rewarded with a dark glance and bandages bound slightly tighter than is strictly necessary before the man takes his leave.

Hannah fiddles with Riley's blankets, pausing midway through ironing out a wrinkle. "What's that?"

Hackett can't decide if Riley looks sad or happy as she holds up the doll she was given. It's only then that he realizes it has an uncanny similarity to Riley herself, and that someone has etched an N7 logo onto the doll's otherwise black outfit.

"She said – she said it helped protect her," says Riley, swallowing. "I guess she was right."

He realizes the reason he can't decipher her mood is because she doesn't know herself.


	14. Fourteen

_****I'm posting this in the middle of the night like some crazy person - all right, let's be honest,_ am _a crazy person - because I literally composed the whole thing while staring at my ceiling instead of sleeping. True story. Please forgive any silly mistakes that might be contained herein._

_This chapter is brought you by insomnia, my pitch black apartment, and rambunctious Halloween revelers outside. Enjoy!_

* * *

_**Forfeit**_

_Fourteen:_

Hackett watches her from across the room, only one ear paying heed to the discussion that circles round and round the table. Her elbow is propped on the armrest of her chair, and her chin is set in the cup of her palm. She's got that doll in her lap, and her free hand fiddles with it as she gazes out the window, paying less attention than himself. He knows what she's seeing; she's looking at those remnants of buildings still standing, jagged spires pointing accusing fingers to the sky.

He knows what she's thinking too, knows what's churning around in that head of hers. The gunman was interrogated a week past. Indoctrination would have been the nice, simple answer but truth often defies simplicity. The man had been insane, sure enough, and had acted on behalf of some fringe fanatical sect devoted to worshiping the Reapers. Hackett thinks of the man in the past tense, because he knows the body now lies in some unmarked grave somewhere. There are days when the burden of leadership grows heavy, but that day, that day Hackett pulled the trigger himself.

She's also thinking about Graham, the little boy she wanted to keep, and how his father miraculously returned from the dead. The farewell had many tears on both sides, and had left Riley looking hollow. This was a boy on whom she'd pinned her hopes for a future – a future as part of a pair. Her hand pulls on the hair of the doll.

"I'll award the Commander the Nova Cluster," says Sparatus.

"And then I," says Wrex with tremendous emphasis, "will award her the Steel Shroud." Here Riley's dragged away from her reverie to raise an eyebrow at Wrex, who grins at her. "Had to think of a new medal, Shepard. Not even a krogan has had quite your success in battle." He shrugs. "Plus, I thought Bakara might like it to commemorate that doctor, what's his face."

From across the table, the salarian dalatrass blinks. "You're naming a krogan medal in honor of an STG defector?"

Wrex fixes the woman with a long stare. "That a problem?"

"Not at all," says the dalatrass primly, then turns her large eyes on Riley. "We also wish to award you the Silver Dagger, Commander Shepard."

Which makes the whole thing a clean sweep for Riley. Hackett wonders how loudly she will jingle when she walks off that stage, how unbalanced she'll be. After this, Commander Shepard will have any choice of assignment in the galaxy, regardless of the military – not that she wouldn't even without the accolades.

Hackett leans forward to add his two credits when Riley says, "No."

All the leaders turn to look at her, but she's turned her attention away again. Her hand is laid over top of the doll's face.

"Commander," he begins, "what do you mean _no_?"

"I mean," she says, and fixes them all with an intensity that he hasn't seen since the war ended, "that I will not be accepting any medals and I will not be a part of some ceremony."

"Commander Shepard," says Matriarch Valaina, "this ceremony is meant to boost the morale of the survivors."

"This ceremony is bullshit," says Riley plainly. "I don't need more medals. I don't need more pomp and circumstance. I've already got my own fan club. The only thing they're missing are t-shirts, and I'm pretty sure that's more because clothing is scarce than because of a lack of desire. Will a pretentious award ceremony really boost morale right now? It won't boost mine, that's for sure."

"Shepard," says Hackett, a warning in his voice.

She meets his eyes dead on, and though there's the smallest crumb of apology in her eyes, she carries on, "Maybe this is me being selfish, but I'd say I earned it, wouldn't you?" Without another word, she pushes herself up from her chair and strides from the room.

Hackett stands as well. "Please, excuse me."

He follows Riley's back to a stairwell, and then the sound of her footsteps upward. When he reaches the roof, he finds her with both hands on the concrete barrier, staring down. The sky overhead is overcast and makes Hackett feel like he's living in a world composed entirely of greys. He follows her eyes and sees that outside the military compound, a group of people are huddled together, waiting. For her.

Walking up to her, he mirrors her pose, pressing his hands into the cool concrete only inches away from hers. He stares at the sky and says nothing. He's waiting for her too.

"This might be terrible to admit, especially to someone who's both your dad and your CO," she says, "but part of me wishes I'd died on the Citadel."

Is this what a heart attack feels like? Hackett's never had one, but this seems like it should be right. His hands tingle and it's as though he loses all feeling in his face. He inhales deeply.

"It was so much easier to save the world than to live in it," she says, and her hands hug the small doll in her hands. She looks up at the sky. "I keep waiting to feel excited that I'm alive, but… I feel like I'm the outline of a person. All those bits that were supposed to fit inside have been misplaced."

"You miss him," says Hackett. The sound of Garrus' sound of desolation rings in his ears.

"Yeah," she says, but it's more an exhalation than anything. The corners of her mouth turn up. "Never thought I'd be talking about boys with my dad."

"I never thought you'd end up with a turian," Hackett admits. He places his hand over hers.

"He saw me," she says. Her voice goes soft in a way he's never heard, and it's like she bunches herself up in anticipation of arms surrounding her. "Even when I thought I was invisible. Even when I thought I'd hidden myself real well, he saw me." She bumps him with her shoulder. "You would've liked him."

His breath becomes lodged in his throat. He takes and squeezes her hand and examines her face. The past tense drapes itself over their conversation, and in that moment, though they are touching, there is an unmoveable wedge between them. Whereas her reaction to Anderson's death was violent, this is small, nearly subdued. A lone tear rolls down her face. When it splashes on the concrete, the fragments tickle his hand.

He wants to tell her that there's still hope, that she should hold on, but the words stick in the base of his throat. Never has he hated his stubborn realism more than now.

With her free hand, Riley tosses that doll off the roof, watching as it summersaults its way down, before it shattering on impact five storeys below.

Hackett couldn't even tell you how many pieces there are, or if there's any chance they could fix it.


	15. Fifteen

_Wow, two updates in one night. An apology for not updating like I used to! I don't know if this chapter turned out the way I wanted. I think I like it, but I've been reading _The Illumination _by Kevin Brockmeier and that man's imagery makes mine look like poo. _

_Also, I've been thinking a lot about my as-yet-unpublished new fanfic that promises to be ten thousand times longer than everything else, so that's been distracting my muse. I really need to start writing only one thing at a time. (She says while writing three fics, a graphic novel, a short film and multiple short stories.) In any case, I hope that you all enjoy this! I really think we're coming up on the end now. :)_

* * *

_**Forfeit**_

_Fifteen:_

He can't look at her as she stands tall before the hushed crowds like she means it. They chose the Old Vic theatre, both for its age – a harkening back to a better time for the humans, and a look at nearly four hundred years of human history for everyone else – and because of all the places in London, it was the least destroyed. This doesn't mean much. Huge cracks run the height of the walls making them list in odd ways, and although Hackett had contractors inspect the place and declare it safe, he can't help but worry that it's going to collapse on them all, this funhouse mirrored building.

And because he can't look at her, he looks at Hannah. She's sitting in the front row, wearing her dress blues. Unlike him, her eyes are all for their daughter, but there's more than just pride written in the contours of her face. He told her about that day when Riley stormed out of the meeting, told her everything except that their daughter wished she'd never survived, because Hannah spent days, weeks, combing the rubble for her daughter and to hear that she should've given up… Hackett only just manages to keep his family together as it is these days. That's not a secret that needs sharing.

In truth, they're all of them much like the building. The world has changed, and they're the crumbling ruins of an old world order. Something has to give, and soon. The entire human race has jumped in that moment before impact and they wait, breathless, weightless, for the other shoe to drop. They wait, and their eyes are all turned on the one person who jumped highest, who can hold her breath the longest.

The other dignitaries stand one by one around him, pinning medal's to Riley's chest. By the end of this, she's going to look like a Christmas tree, and Hackett is startled to realize that the holiday season is only weeks away. Only the threat of inclement weather and the chill that whistles through the cracks and girders of the demolished city are the only hints that winter is fast approaching, if not already here.

When it's his turn, he stands, his hand clasped tight around the medal he has to offer her. He couldn't give her the Star of Terra, not again. Elysium was one thing – an amazing feat, and one that few people could've pulled off – but it doesn't compare with the immensity of her victory over the Reapers.

Why, then, doesn't she look more pleased? Or at least content? She stands in front of him, face blank, hands clasped behind her back and though her eyes are pointed in his direction, she stares straight through him. He doesn't know why she agreed to this, finally, especially when he didn't push her decision in the least, but she did. When she announced her choice, he'd surprised himself by being angry. Angry that she was still offering herself up on the altar of martyrdom, and angry that he was letting her.

"This," he says, "is an old medal, long out of use. It used to be given by the English monarchy to exceptional soldiers." He pins the thing to her chest, though it feels too heavy in his hands. "We thought it would be fitting, given out surroundings."

She doesn't smile, only inclines her head slightly, eyes still focused on something beyond him. He wonders, what does she see? But he'll never ask, because he doesn't really want to know.

His is the last, and she turns away from him and walks to the podium as cheers and elation sweep up from audience like a herd of wild horses, their hooves thundering and stampeding his daughter to death. She braces herself with both hands, and Hackett allows himself to observe her. Her dress blues are too big, too awkwardly sized to look the way they should, but they were the best they could scrounge up on short notice. Her hair has been cut, but not styled, so that it falls in unkempt waves just above her eyes.

"Stop," she says, her voice booming out over the audience. The clapping continues, albeit in a confused staccato. Riley leans closer into the microphone. "I said, stop." Now it dwindles, and the hush of whispers lurk in the corners of the room. Hackett sits down, and he can only see her back, but he can imagine that she's closed her eyes. "Don't applaud for me. I'm just one woman. These?" Here she jangles her medals. "These are not things I earned alone."

Riley takes a deep breath. "If you want the truth of it, I didn't want to do this ceremony. It will boost morale, they said. Help you guys come along. But I think you already know exactly what our victory means. It means that we get to live another day, that our existences, small as they are, won't be winked out of the galaxy on the whims of some life forms that decided they knew better. They didn't. They were flawed." Her knuckles grow white as they grip the edges of the podium. "But so are we. So am I. I'm not the hero you all want me to be, the perfect shining white knight. And I probably don't deserve all these accolades. I had so much help along the way – I would never have reached the Crucible without all those people that helped me along the way. I agreed to this farce so that we could all stop pretending that I single-handedly stopped the Reapers and started acknowledging the people that deserve to be up here with me, but who can't."

From her pocket, she pulls out a piece of paper. Leaning into the microphone, she reads off a litany of names, some he recognizes, some he doesn't. Her voice starts to falter as she neared the end, tripping over the names of the _Normandy_ crew. On the name _Garrus Vakarian_, her voice cracked in the middle and it took her several tries to get it all out. When she finishes, she irons out the imaginary wrinkles in the paper with her hand. The silence rings loud in the room.

It's in that silence that her omni-tool flares to life. He doesn't have to see her face to imagine her frown as she pops the interface into life and reads the text written there. She takes one deep gulp of air, and then leaps off the stage, running as fast as her legs will allow even as one starts to lock and gives her a funny, lopsided gait. Without thinking, he's up and after her, ignoring as the audience stands with questions bursting from their lips.

She runs the dusty streets of London, and he follows her. He can't match her speed, not anymore, but he keeps her in his sights. It's only when he sees the lights of the spaceport that he realizes where she's going. Something besides adrenaline sings in his blood, and he wonders what it could mean. He pushes into the building, sees Riley approaching a group of people – very familiar people.

Outside, through cracked and broken glass, the _Normandy_ sits, looking a little worse for wear, but impossibly whole.

"Holy shit," says a breathy voice from behind him, and he turns to see Hannah, face red and chest heaving from exhaustion. She stares at the _Normandy _and then at him and then past him at Shepard. A turian has broken away from the group, and Hackett recognizes him as Garrus Vakarian. Hannah takes his hand and leads him closer, to within hearing range but far enough not to intrude. Judging from Riley's face, she's probably doesn't even remember they exist.

"Shepard," says Vakarian, and it sounds like a prayer.

Riley struggles for words, her lower lip trembling but the corners of her lips pulling upwards in the closest thing to a smile Hackett has seen in weeks. She takes a step forward. "You're supposed to be dead. I read out your name and everything." She waves her paper around for emphasis.

"You don't get to hold the monopoly on resurrections," says Vakarian, his eyes scanning her up and down as though to memorize every part of her. "Though you're sure trying hard."

She nods. "Well, I guess I just have one thing to say then." She swallows, and a tear leaks down her face. "That kill shot was totally mine."

Hackett can't pinpoint the second they started moving towards each other, only that suddenly Riley was in Vakarian's arms, her own wrapped in the dip between his cowl and his neck. She buries her face in his neck, her body wracking with silent sobs as one of his hands goes into his hair and he rubs his cheek against the top of her head. "Usually," says Vakarian softly, as though speaking too loud will cause the woman in his arms to break, "I get a kick out of watching you disobey orders. I'm glad you listened to my last one."

"It was a close call," says Riley.

"With you, it usually is," replies Vakarian, a smile in his voice. Riley pulls back and plants kisses all over his cheeks.

That's when Hannah takes Hackett's hand. When he looks to her, she's crying, but she tugs on his arm and as they leave, she loops it around her shoulders, leaning her body into the curve of his own. When they exit the spaceport, the stars are gleaming overhead, free from the weather that's plagued the city for weeks. The only clouds are those formed by their breaths steaming together and lifting into the sky.


	16. Sixteen

_****Sorry for the delay on this one. I've had several ideas bouncing around, but none of them seemed willing to be committed to paper. Once again, thank you all so much for reading. I haven't forgotten this story, trust me!  
_

* * *

_**Forfeit**_

_Sixteen:_

"What have you been doing?" she demands, flinging a datapad onto his desk.

Hackett sighs and runs his hands down his face, leaning back in his creaking chair. He knew this was coming. He's known for weeks that it was only a matter of time before Riley got over her joy at the _Normandy's_ returned and started being the soldier she always was. There is disgust and something like shame carved into the creases in her face, and Hackett wishes it didn't hurt to see it there.

But his moral resolve, what's left of it, it won't let him back down. It won't let him look away. He's closer to her now than he's ever been, emotionally and locally. She and Vakarian have taken up the squat apartment opposite his. After some initial hesitation, she's taken to coming and going between the two units with relative ease, usually looking for Hannah (who now takes up most of the dingy dresser to herself) but sometimes for him, too.

He doesn't have to look at the datapad to know what's on it. Pictures of subterranean cells in terrible conditions. Autopsies. One large grave holding the bodies of a dozen people.

When he doesn't give an answer, her frown deepens and her voice claws into more of a growl. "You're executing people," she says.

"Yes," he says.

"When did we become a dictatorship?" Riley asks. "When did it become okay to kill people without a trial?"

Hackett's never been known for his temper, but a ghost of it flares here. "You tell me, Spectre. Wasn't it you that blasted through more than one gang base without leaving a single survivor?"

She falters backwards for a second, before leaning forward to put her hands on the desk. "That was different."

"Yes, it was," he says. "I buried the people I killed."

It's a low blow and he knows it, but he's already sinking under the weight of the choices that need to be made and the last thing he needs is for Riley to hold him under. He knows she's a hero – it's pretty much without question, now – but he knows, too, that she has bouts of utter naiveté. He's not sure where that particular trait comes from. Not from Hannah, and certainly not from him.

But this isn't the world it was and certain grim truths need to be faced. Those people on the datapad were the head members of the fringe cult worshiping the Reapers. Upon raiding their hideout, Hackett's team had found assassination plans, covert intel, and by far the most damning, blueprints to make their own husks and Reapers. While Hackett didn't know whether these aforementioned blueprints were actually feasible, he remembered Riley's briefing on Sanctuary.

He looked into the eyes of every person captured and saw not a hint of regret. He wishes they'd been indoctrinated, because at least then, then it wouldn't be wanton human corruption.

Riley's face has gone blank. That's a warning sign. Her voice comes out strong, but there's a hint of a quaver underneath. "What sort of world are we building?"

"I don't know," says Hackett, honestly. "I'm just trying to make sure there's still a world to have."

She shakes her head, as if to try and escape that thought. Without another word, she turns and leaves, her shoulders hunched down. Hackett would like to consider it a victory, but he can't. He can only remember how none of those people screamed before they died. None of them raged. One woman cried, but it was silent. They all stared defiantly at him.

If he had to do it again, would he? The answer will always be yes. Hackett does his best not to regret. He's learned to live with his decisions, because he never makes them without weighing all his options. He's a murderer and a protector and a father and a soldier and sometimes these roles can't all be filled at once.

He could've told her, told her what those people had been planning. In the days before the assault on the Cerberus base, he saw it in her face – the hatred. He'd never seen her hate anything before, not even the Reapers. It's hard to hate something so alien, so other, but Cerberus… They were too familiar. They were people who, in theory, had once been normal who'd been driven to the point of insanity.

Does she think of him that way, now? The thought is a hot poker in his belly. He pushes it away and tries to get back to work. It's better to keep her in the dark. She's dealt with too much already.

His work doesn't get done. Instead, he sits swiveled towards the window, considering this new world they'd been left with. Outside, the sky is a dark grey and the clouds sit low on what's left of the skyline.

He doesn't hear Vakarian until the turian clears his throat. The other man stands awkwardly in the doorway, his blue eyes inspecting the room.

"Mind if I come in?" asks Vakarian.

Hackett makes the gesture that says, _be my guest_. Vakarian moves into the room, standing by the window, not next to Hackett but close, and crosses his arms. They both observe the unchanging scenery in silence for a while. Vakarian breaks it first.

"This isn't what she imagined, you know," he says. Seeing Hackett's expression, he clarifies, "Shepard… She was more focused on saving everyone, on getting the job done. Frankly, she was too busy to consider what would happen afterwards. She needed to cling to something happy, so she imagined dancing in the streets and flowing alcohol and families reunited. She didn't imagine… this."

"I know," says Hackett.

"But you and I," says Vakarian, "we always knew that this was going to end ugly. One way or another. We got the slightly prettier of the two options, but…" He frowns, making his turian face seem all the more severe. "I know those people needed to be killed, Admiral."

"My daughter disagrees."

"She's a better person than both of us," answers Vakarian, "and that's why neither of us told her what they were up to."

Hackett wasn't sure about Vakarian. He gave him the benefit of the doubt because he trusted Riley's judgement, but now he was looking at the man with new eyes. It wasn't that Hackett saw himself in Vakarian – that would be awkward and far too Freudian for his tastes – but he did see the perfect counterbalance to Shepard. Someone who wouldn't step on Shepard's dreams, but who could understand them for what they were and plan accordingly.

"Do you think we should have?"

The turian sighs. "If we had… She probably would've killed them herself." His tone goes soft. "But I think it may have broken her. She fought this war to defeat the Reapers for those people. Finding out…" He doesn't finish his thought.

They slip again into silence and stay that way for a long time, watching as the rain starts to tumble onto the ruins.


	17. Seventeen

_I might be slighly MIA for the next little while. It has nothing to do with my love of these fics or my resolve - I have plenty, trust me. Unfortunately, I am utterly laden with writing projects - trying to write a short film, self-publish a graphic novel and put together a literary journal while attending university is eating my life. I will do my best to update when I can. Enjoy! :)  
_

_PS - I totally mix up chapters. My bad. The real chapter 17 has been returned to its proper location._

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_**Forfeit**_

_Seventeen:_

He and Riley haven't spoken in two weeks. Where once she came and went between apartments, she now invites Hannah over instead with an unspoken, invisible barrier between herself and her father. Whatever relationship they were starting to culminate, it's been put on hold, if not lost completely. Hackett knows she's waiting for him to apologize, to come to her and tell her that he was wrong… But he wasn't.

Since that day with Vakarian, he's gone through the motions and wondered if he should just be open about what was happening. That would be the morally right thing to do, wouldn't it? That would be what Riley deserves, what she's _earned_, but from where Hackett's standing, she's also earned the right to take a step back from the darker aspects of this war. She's tired; it's written all over her. It's in her sighs, in the lines that sweep down from the corners of her eyes, from the slump of his shoulders.

He knows that's what it is, because he sees the same signs on himself. Like father like daughter, apparently.

Hannah enters his office and leans her hip against the door jamb, crossing her arms. "Are you ever going to make it right?" she asks.

"That's what I'm trying to do," he replies, signing his name to the bottom of some treaty from the salarians.

"I'm not talking about the world, Steve," she says, temper flaring. She walks over and around the desk, her hand coming to grip his shoulder. "I'm talking about your relationship with our daughter."

_You should apologize_. That's what Hannah's trying to say, but Hackett doesn't ever apologize unless he really means it, and he definitely won't mean it. Can't she see that lying to Riley will only exacerbate the problem? That girl is a walking bullshit detector. If she felt patronized, it would only serve to stoke the fire. No, better to let this thing peter out slowly.

Hackett sighs. "It's a difference of opinion. There's nothing I can do."

"You could tell her the truth," says Hannah, softly. Hackett jerks backwards to look at her, and while his lover looks uncomfortable, she doesn't look repentant. An attempt at a smile crawls across her face. "I found the reports. You shouldn't have left them on top of your desk."

"I figured that a senior officer with a few decades of service under her belt would know better," snaps Hackett, slamming his pen down. He pulls the heels of his hands over his eyes and decides that these Shepard women are too bloody difficult for their own good. "I'm not telling her."

"Look, I know you're doing this out of some misplaced sense of loyalty," says Hannah, moving her hands to his shoulders and kneading, "but it's not right."

"I'm just trying to protect her," says Hackett. "She's done enough."

"I'm not going to disagree," replies Hannah with a small nod. "But you weren't there with her growing up. Riley… Riley likes to pick up causes, people, things she can protect or defend. She did it as a kid, she did it through basic, she did it on Elysium, hell, she's built her entire career on it. All she knew when she heard you were killing people – people who weren't indoctrinated – was that you were killing people she chose to protect. She didn't understand _why_." Hannah's massage turns into something of a hug.

Something about the way Hannah says this makes him turn in her hold to look at her, anxiety crawling up the insides of his intestines. "You told her," he accuses, realization dawning.

"She loves you," says Hannah, "and I love you. I needed her to understand."

Hackett stands and moves out of Hannah's arms, bumping his fist onto his desk. "I was trying to keep that information from her. I was scared it might break her. I wanted… I wanted to protect her."

"I know," says Hannah, unshed tears making her words cloudy. "God knows, I didn't want to tell her either, but I think she's proven that she can take care of herself, right?" When she gets no response, she clears her throat. "She was headed to the _Normandy_. Go. Talk to her. If anyone can make her understand, it's you."

Hackett isn't sure about that as he listens to Hannah leave the room. For most of their relationship, he's been her superior, the one giving her orders. Though they would sometimes discuss the mission at hand, very rarely was he called upon to explain himself to her – or, if he's being technical, to anyone, really. But as he watches the rolling London fog move through the slowly revitalizing city, he takes a deep breath and grabs his coat.

The _Normandy_ had been moved to a secure Alliance docking bay. The fact that she'd made it back to Earth at all was a testament to the ingenuity and tenacity of Riley's crew. The marines on watch salute as he walks past them to board the ship. Everyone has been dismissed for the evening, and the freighter is oddly silent. Though it's hardly ever been a bustling ship – not like some of the other frigates Hackett had served on, where people had to shimmy past each other in the hall – it's eerily quiet tonight.

He tries the War Room first, but it's empty, the consoles dark. Next he takes the elevator up to the Captain's Quarters, but those too are empty. He heads down to Crew Deck to poke around the rooms there when he notices that the door to the AI Core is open.

Riley sits in the dark, stationed on top of one of the cores, back against the wall and arms draped over her bent knees. He can see the reflection of the tear tracks down her cheeks, but pretends not to notice as he clears his throat.

"Mom told you I was here," she says, and it's almost a question.

Hackett hums the affirmative. "I love that woman, but I always forget how meddlesome she can be."

With a gurgling laugh, Riley says, "Imagine growing up with her." There's a pause, and Hackett can hear her hitched breathing. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Leaning back against another core, Hackett says, "I suppose I meant to protect you."

"So you spend years sending me into perilous situations, and now that the war's over, _now_ you want to protect me?" There's no malice in her voice, only a jagged irony.

"You're one of the best damn soldiers I've ever known," says Hackett, "and not because you're my blood. David and I both saw it. I sent you into those situations because I was sure you could handle it, but that doesn't mean that I didn't worry until I got your sitrep."

"And now?" she prompts.

"Now, you're a hero who won us the war. What you did was nigh impossible and I will never stop being proud of that. After all you did, I wanted you to have a break. To be able to bask in your accomplishment instead of being the poster girl for cleaning up other people's messes."

They sit in silence a while before Shepard speaks. "This was where EDI… lived? Existed? Was housed? God, I don't know. This place, it _was_ EDI, I guess. The whole ship was. She was a machine, but she was also my friend."

He's never asked about what happened to the Geth or to EDI. The running theory among experts is that whatever had short-circuited the Reapers had also taken out the friendly AI. As far as he knows, nobody has though scuttlebutt says that Jeff Moreau took the loss of the Normandy's AI particularly hard.

"Riley…" he says.

"I had a choice," she whispers, her head turned away. "I had a choice, and I thought I was going to die no matter what. I didn't know what to do. None of the choices seemed that great, but I knew that if I didn't choose, that if I didn't do _something_ we'd be just another footnote in the history of the galaxy. And then I remembered what you said once. I can't quote directly, but you said something like, _Destroying all the Reapers is the only way to win this war_. So I did, even knowing that EDI and the Geth would die too."

"A tough call," says Hackett, heart twisting, "but the right one."

"I thought so too," says Riley, "until I saw that damned report. I killed three hundred thousand batarians and wiped out an entire sentient race for _what_? So people could try and build another goddamned Reaper?" She slumps down outrage leaking into despair.

"No," says Hackett, taking her hand and clenching it. "You did it to save us, and you did. And no matter what nutjobs show up, don't let them take that away from you. People died, and it's regrettable, but without you… Without you, the horrors we face now would look miniscule."

"It wasn't fair," says Riley, and she sounds much younger than she is. "I would've died if it meant they could live. I should've made a different choice. Maybe if I'd chosen differently, everyone would be better off."

"Stop," orders Hackett. "You can't know that. Accept what you did – the amazing thing that you did – and keep the memories of the dead with you, but don't regret. You did good, my girl."

For reasons that he may never know, all the dams she's built break down at those words and her hands clutch at him. He bundles her into his arms, holding her in the dark until her tears are stained cold on his shirt.


	18. Eighteen

_Omigod, it's been almost two __ months__ since I updated this (or any other) story. My apologies! Just know that I've thought about this (and every other story) nearly every day since then, and it's just been a matter of timing and energy. I've been involved in some pretty labour-intensive things, including self-publishing my own comic book! I will endeavour to update more regularly from now on. (Side note: I'm also going to do what I can to update... pretty much everything else within the week, so fingers crossed!) Thank you so much to everyone who read, reviewed, and/or favourited. I'm exceedingly touched!  
_

_I've been turning this idea over in my head for two months. I think there are only 2 chapters to go, but I said that 8 chapters ago, so what do I know?  
_

* * *

_**Forfeit**_

_Eighteen: _

They are running out of eezo.

It's this certainty that wraps around Hackett in the dead of night. Far in the distance, he can hear shouts echoing through the concrete graveyard that is London, and he wonders if he'll have to wake up tomorrow to find that the casualty rate has risen in a way that has nothing to do with starvation, exposure or disease. But even those thoughts, as upsetting as they are, as much as they make him sad where once they would've made him angry, those thoughts don't compare to the absolute certainty that they are _running out of eezo_.

There was a meeting of the races' leaders yesterday to discuss the issue. Earth has no natural element zero reserves, and the shadow that looms over them all is that if they don't find more, then even the shreds of their broken society will crumble away. The quarians and the turians will have the hardest time initially, reliant as they are on the liveships, but it won't be long before the problem escalates. Without eezo, shuttles will not be able to fly supplies from one corner of the world to the others. Food will become scarce at the poles, and there won't be nearly enough transportation to move all the civilians into more temperate zones.

Beside him, Hannah shifts in her sleep, her nose scrunching up. Hackett rolls onto his side and wraps his arm around her, pulling her back to him. She makes a little sound that might be a protest before relaxing against him. In the darkness of the room, he feels her breathing change and knows that she's awakened.

He hasn't mentioned any of this to Riley, who's been doing her best to help out with the refugees – under supervision – since Hackett still doesn't trust that she's quite ready to go back to soldiering and since she no longer has any patience for politicking. Sometimes if she moves the wrong way, her leg will seize and she'll be forced to sit down, a look of utter consternation slicing over her face. He wouldn't want that to happen on the field. Last time he brought it up, she gave him a bland look and simply said that she was working with Miranda to try and get it fixed.

Hackett doesn't know what that means, and after seeing the files for Project Lazarus, he chooses not to ask.

"What are you thinking about?" asks Hannah.

He sighs. "Just running the numbers."

There's a pause from beside him. "Is this about the eezo?"

Part of him wonders if he shouldn't have kept it from her too. These Shepard women, they like to be involved in everything, beating themselves bloody to get the job done. Once, what seems like lifetimes ago, he was forced to let them, even encourage them, but now… Now, things are different, and with only the sound of their breathing between him and Hannah, he can admit that he no longer thinks of them as Rear Admiral and Commander Shepard, respectively, but simply as _my family_.

But because of that expectation, he finds himself sighing. "Yes."

To her credit, she doesn't offer him platitudes, doesn't tell him _it will be all right_. She just settles in close to him and thinks over the problem with him. He can practically hear the connections thrumming in her brain. His arm tightens around her, and he places a kiss on her hair, smelling the sharp smell of the harsh soap they've all resorted to using.

"We'll just have to deal with it one day at a time," she says, and from anyone else, it would've sounded like obvious, foolish advice but from her, with the weight of implication behind it, it's almost comforting.

Hannah isn't the same woman he fell in love with all those years ago. She was brighter then, and he'd been sure she would burn hot enough to burn him up and he didn't care. Now, she's dimmed, but she's steady, constant. It's the other Shepard he has to worry about now, the one who burns so hard she threatens to scorch everything around her. Hackett allows himself a moment to wonder what his life would've been like, sandwiched between the two of them, and curses himself that he never tried.

"Marry me," he says, and it tumbles out before he can stop it. This was no elaborate plan he had, only a notion that he'd been turning over and over like a worn penny.

Hannah sucks in a breath next to him. She rolls over under his arm and they lay facing each other, practically nose to nose. Her dark eyes search his face, and her fingers skitter across his stubble. She smiles slightly, before pressing her forehead to his chest.

"No," she says, and it's like a blade in the gut. He struggles not to recoil, though his hand does tighten slightly. He knows Hannah doesn't miss this, and she sighs, bunching his shirt in her fist. "You're angry."

"No," he says, and it's true.

"Upset then," she says, and when he doesn't deny it, she places a kiss into his shirt and considers her words. "You want to know why, right? It's just… All those years ago, we agreed not to marry to pursue careers in the Alliance. We knew then that we'd chosen an unsafe profession, that the worst could happen, but we chose it anyways, and, well, in some sick way, I loved you more for it."

Hackett isn't sure where this is going, isn't quite sure if he understands, but nods to show he's paying attention.

"Why do you want to marry me?" she asks, instead of continuing to explain.

"I love you," he says.

"I love you too," she admits, pressing herself close to him. "I always have. But I feel like you're suggesting this so you have something to cling to, something you can look at and know for sure that it's under your control, that you've subverted the chaos that's being flung our way." She tilts her head up and meets his gaze. "But it won't, you know. Things will still be chaotic, and we'll just have to try and make it through. Together. I don't want to marry you because I don't want you to think that some words and an official title are keeping us together. I want you to know that we're together from now on because it's our _choice._" She stops, chewing on her bottom lip and frowning. "I don't know if that makes sense."

There's some jumbled logic in there somewhere, he's sure, but Hackett can't move past the fact that Hannah has, in essence, just told him that she loves him and won't be going anywhere. He places a soft kiss on her lips, and when he rolls on top of her, she doesn't protest, her hands sliding under his shirt and helping him to pull it off.

They might die tomorrow. Everyone might die tomorrow. There is no certainty, and there's only so much he can do. But as he and Hannah shed their sleepwear and her legs wrap around him, he knows with every ounce of him that he will fight to be here with her every night, and that this jumbled mess of uncertainty and love and death and choice is Hannah's point, because there, in the middle, like the eye of a storm, is what it means to be _alive_.


	19. Nineteen

_**Forfeit**_

_Nineteen:_

"Absolutely not."

Riley's already defensive face closes in on itself. With her arms crossed, Hackett's left with few visual cues that would betray her thought processes. He doesn't know when he started getting used to seeing her as Riley Shepard instead of Commander Shepard, and he knows that the two are not separate entities, but he can't help but be taken aback whenever he thinks _so this is how she managed it_. The woman in front of him is nobody's little girl right now – she's a soldier, and she's a commander.

"I can't stay here," she says, and he takes note of her word choice. Not, _I won't_ but _I can't_.

He tries to muster up something else to say, and she shifts almost imperceptibly under his attention, but she does not back down. No, she wouldn't, would she? It's been months since that conversation he had with Vakarian, months since he saw her drowning in her lack of purpose, months since he's seen her be that strong, capable soldier, but she's been clawing her way back to the surface.

That soldier, she's standing in front of him now, all right.

The excuses are on his lips. He could say how he needs her here because there are few enough people with the authority to lead Earth as it rebuilds. He could say that she's a symbol, an inspiration to everyone who sees her, and that her being around can only improve morale. He could say that he's through with hiding things from her, and that he needs her here to help root out any more possible corruption. He could say that they're finally a family, and he doesn't know if he can let her leave.

Licking his lips, Hackett asks, "Would you still go, even if you weren't romantically involved with Garrus?"

There is no quick reply. She chews on her lip, eyes skittering towards the window, brow furrowed in thought. After nearly a minute, she nods once. "Yes."

It's the truth, and he knows it.

He lays his hands flat on his desk and hangs his head, shutting his eyes and exhaling. He could order her to stay, of course, but she's proven time and again that she's more than willing to break a few rules if they're impeding her desired course. By rights, she should've been court martialed half a dozen times or more, but she'd always fly back after pulling whatever hair brained stunt she'd managed to concoct, ready and willing to accept whatever punishment they were prepared to inflict upon her. The charges never stuck, despite the fact that Hackett made all attempts to be as distanced from the proceedings as was possible.

Maybe she's gotten better at reading him, or maybe it's just her mind following the logical thought processes, because she says quietly, "I'm going even if you don't give me your blessing."

He nods, sighing, before raising an eyebrow at her. "Have you told your mother?" Judging by the uncomfortable expression on her face, he's going to assume that's a _no_. "She's not going to like this little plan of yours."

"She never said anything when I was flying off to stop Saren, or the Collectors, or to fight Reapers."

"She never said anything _to you_," corrects Hackett, dropping into his chair and running his hands down his face. "I remember more than a few strongly worded letters."

Riley's cough sounds suspiciously like a laugh, but her poker face is impeccable. She shakes her head and says, "I'll let her know. She's still got a few weeks to get used to the idea."

_If_ she gets used to the idea. The heads of the races had convened three days prior, and it had been business as usual until Primarch Victus and Admiral Shala'Raan had exchanged a glance and taken the floor. _We're aware of the eezo problem_, Victus had said, _and the quarians and turians have decided that it's time for us to assemble what's left of our fleets and go on a mining mission_. There'd been a long breath before half a dozen voices started speaking out at once. The essential gist was that it made sense for the dextro-species to go together, as there was less food available for them here on Earth. The liveship that had been damaged in the assault on the Reapers had been sufficiently repaired, and while the quarian's vegan diet wasn't exactly a turian favourite, it sure beat anything they'd find on Earth. So they are taking their ships with mining technology and heading off.

And Riley, stubborn, beautiful, frustrating, wonderful Riley is taking the repaired _Normandy_, and she's going with them.

Intellectually, Hackett knows it seems more dire than it is. Though the Sol system has no eezo, the same cannot be said about surrounding systems. There's plenty out there to be found, but…

But the comm buoys are still down. Admiral Tali'Zorah was certain that it would be a trivial matter to get them working again so that messages would be possible between the departing fleet and the planet left behind, but that would all depend on finding the buoys to repair them, and that depends on whether or not they've been blasted out of the sky with what seems like most other advanced technology. This trip could take years – will definitely take years – and if there's a problem, the fleet might never be able to relay a message back. He and Hannah might be left wondering what ever happened to their little girl.

There are far too many _if_s, and none of them lend the Admiral any sense of comfort.

"I won't try to talk you out of it," he says, despite wanting to do exactly that. "Having the _Normandy_ could be a sound tactical advantage. We have no idea who is out there. The Reapers might be dead, but desperate times and all that. Having a stealth ship couldn't hurt."

Pirates and scavengers are his biggest concern right now. The criminal element always seemed to crawl out of the woodwork after a catastrophe. He'd call it human nature, but, well…

Riley nods her agreement, and that seems to be that. He's given his version of a blessing and she's accepted it. She bobs indecisively for a second before coming around his desk and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Unused to this sort of affection, Hackett pats the overlap of her arms.

"Thank you," she says.

For the first time in months, she sounds like herself.


	20. Twenty

_Sorry for the delay, folks. One more chapter to go! Thank you all so much for your support! _

* * *

_**Forfeit**_

_Twenty:_

Hackett wishes the gnawing in his gut would desist. He stands in the middle of the _Normandy's_ cargo bay as turian and quarian technicians flutter about him, running checks and calling instructions to each other. Nobody seems to pay the Admiral any mind as he strolls past the small hot houses that the quarians installed using technology from their liveships. It's not much, but it's enough for Riley to be able to grow her own produce to supplement the ration bars and liquid supplements.

And though it's just a ship, as Hackett stares up at the smooth contours of the walls, newly refurbished, for a moment, he can't help but think that Riley was wrong. This ship was never EDI – this ship was always Commander Riley Shepard. It's been blasted apart and put back together. It's brought together people who had no business being in the same room, never mind cooperating on near impossible endeavours. Whenever people have needed saving, it's shown up at the last minute and pulled off incredible feats. It's small – deceptively small – yet it's had more influence in the galaxy than perhaps any other ship in history.

The fear hasn't abated any. It sits inside him like a tepid pool, with anxiety mildewing his organs. A small part of him longs for the days when he could disassociate himself from Riley, but mostly, he wouldn't trade the past few months for anything.

The elevator opens and there she is, dressed once again in blue fatigues and looking as though she never left this ship. You'd hardly know from looking at her that she spent months in intensive recovery. You'd never know that she very nearly gave her life to fulfil her mission.

When she sees him, a smile ghosts onto her face and she strides forward, her hands on her hips. "Where's mom?" she asks.

"Badgering the Primarch to keep you safe, I believe," he says. The smile falls from his voice when he says, "She's afraid." It's the closest he can come to saying that _he's_ afraid.

"I know," says Riley quietly. Her eyes drift around the cargo bay and she takes a deep breath. "But this is home for me. More than Earth. More than anywhere. This is where I belong."

It's hard to argue with the determined set of her shoulders or the confident slope of her brows. She's a far cry from the broken thing she was, the shattered shell of a person. It's like the _Normandy_ is her soul, and without it, she was only half a person. It was only when it returned that her old self started to seep back in.

Hackett places his hands on her shoulders. "You'll be careful?"

Her grin is insubordinate. "Aren't I always?"

He can't help his choked laughter as he squeezes her shoulders and turns. "She'll want to say goodbye once more before you set off."

They walk in silence off the ship as the turians load the last of the supplies. Sure enough, Hannah is speaking intently with the primarch, her face carved from concrete. When she sees them, she cuts off mid-sentence. Victus turns with no little amount of relief.

"Almost time to go then?" asks Hackett.

Victus nods. He holds out his hand and Hackett grasps it. Thirty years ago, they would've been shooting at each other from across Shanxi, and now this turian is, well, he's something close to a friend. "Make sure you take care of this planet while we're gone," says Victus wryly. "Spirits know it cost a lot to save it. I'd hate to come back and find you've ruined it."

Hackett chuckles. "I'll do my best."

"Then I will talk to you soon, Commander," says Victus to Riley, and with a nod to each of them, makes his way to his own ship.

Hannah wraps her arms around Riley, eyes wide with unshed tears. "You be safe, you hear? I swear to God, I cannot lose you for a third time. My heart will just give out, I know it."

"I promise, mom," says Riley, smiling slightly. She squeezes Hannah. "I love you."

"I love you too," says Hannah, "and I'm so damn proud of you, even if you're too reckless for your own good."

The two women extricate themselves and Riley turns to Hackett, who has utterly no idea how to proceed from here. He, too, feels on the verge of tears, but years of conditioning urge him to keep himself under control. Still, it's a hard thing to surpress when Riley presses herself into his embrace and says, "I love you."

Something blooms in his chest, hot and sticky. Those words have never been shared between them before, and though Hackett has always thought them, every time Riley's name came up, it's a far different thing to say them aloud. Swallowing, Hackett says, "Me too."

One of the quarians calls for Riley from the _Normandy_, and she places one kiss on the cheeks of her parents, before jogging to make it aboard the ship and all Hackett can think is _no¸ no if this is the end, this isn't how I want it to be, this can't be it. _He can't stand that the last image he might have of her is of her walking away. That

"Commander," he calls, and when she spins, he salutes. "Do us proud."

Her lips tremble as she returns it. "Of course, sir." As she drops it, she cocks a hip and calls out, "But don't you think that saving the galaxy warrants a promotion?"

Hannah scoffs next to him, but Hackett can't hide his smile. "Return from this mission alive, Commander, and you'll find one waiting for you."

Her laughter is irreverent as she backs up the onto the ship, waving as she goes, her eyes shining from either mirth or sadness, her body whole, her hair now barely brushing the tops of her shoulders, and he can only think of that picture of the little girl on the beach from so long ago, playing in the sand with the world at her fingertips, utterly fearless and this, he decides, this is the closest he's ever come to the centre of Riley Shepard. He watches her until the _Normandy_ closes its hangar bay, his hand reaching blindly for Hannah's and clasping it as though it's his only tether to the world.

And though he doesn't believe in any sort of higher power, and though he's long considered himself the least superstitious person of his acquaintance, he prays he sees his daughter again.


End file.
